He feels alone in a room full of people.
He supposes, "I guess that hasn't changed,"
and continues on about his day.

Hearing the words, "I thirst," in his frustrations and loneliness,
he looks back and watches the cross leave marks
from where he had come from,
and he began to wonder what they'd look like
the further he traveled.

A bitter ****-fest of lollapalooza.
Burn(ing) me, man. but don't taze me, bro.

If I got high on legalized substances, am I still escaping?
Metaphoric endorphin rushing as patio furniture sits silently,
slowly choking as I fill it with my own ***.

I haven't written in so long, because I lack some passion.
I haven't written verbal joust in the form of bitter tongue because I felt it lacked restraint.

I ****** with a straight jacket; it felt great.
Perpetual virginity, a fool's errand running.
I have my V-card still; kind of... it's stunning.

I left a can of gasoline at an alien's house.
I came back and fire had engulfed what was left of my sorrows.

"I thirst," said He, the savior of the world.
Let's all ignore the singing signs of everything, boys... girls...

I have not a word to say in recompense for exploitation of your idiotic murmurings.
Well done, my good and faithful burdenings.

I can't speak to what hasn't yet been said,
but I can sure as hell guestimate, that we'd probably all be dead.

This **** ain't free.
Thank you, Kendrick Lamar, for reminding me.

This is me unfettered.
This is me unchained.
Give me a pen and some paper:
this **** will get strange.

I am Fred Astaire with a **** so fine, you'd think it's aged wine the way it twirls and floats.

Breaking up is ******, now put this poem down your throat.

I can’t help feeling like we treat people and words like trash.
I love you’s go in recycling.
Tinder messages in the garbage.
And all of the memories and dreams we shared together end up
rotting in piles that let off a particular kind of smell.
It permeates your nostrils
no matter how you try to escape it.
2.
I felt like a piece of garbage today.
3.
I’ve felt like a piece of garbage every day since we broke up
4.
Better yet I felt like I was left on the sidewalk;
discarded for someone else to deal with.
I was your dining room table
a bit scratched up and bruised
but still solid
still standing.
Now I’m alone on the sidewalk watching
as people pass me by-
Me wondering: if I still had value
would someone have come to rescue me by now?
5.
I still have a hard time imagining how
I would fit into a new space.
It seems like an impossible thought.
I find the self deprecating thoughts come faster
cheaper
easier
I’m waiting for garbage day to come.
For the anticipation to end.
To have an answer.

"If I never write you," she said,
"you'll know I've found what I needed."
And thus they parted ways...
And he still awaits a letter.

If I drink and I write
Will I be more coherent
Or will my thoughts
Be evermore etched into
Eternity

There's a smell on my breath
That doesn't translate to text
But I can walk on water for an illusion

Color this arrested development

I want to starve for my art with you
until our faces have sunk in
and our shy skeletons have shown themselves
through our skin, scarred with regrets and tattoos.
I want to write with you
until we hallucinate those skeletons leaping from our bodies
and waltzing with each other while we lay
limp and high on the floor —
until we have nothing left but each other
and stacks upon stacks of 99-cent notebooks
filled with testaments of our madness
and love
like some kind of unholy matrimonial vows
that bind us together
with a silver coil.

I want to paint on the walls with you
until our ****** apartment becomes a gallery
the best gallery in New York
that no one will know about,
at least until we OD
and the stench of our frail bodies leads them here
to these walls painted with the last of our strength.
Until you know how it feels to have death
breathing on your neck
and offering to buy you a drink
and take you home
to pick your mind like a gentleman.

Let’s write our story
then jump from the bridge of sanity
that connects the pointless gap between reality
and the brick wall on the other side
that looms over humanity—
so fall with me
until you know what it's like
to be loved by a poet
who most think is dead inside.
Until you know that I am beautiful
when you step into this little world
that I’ve made up like a god
with one big bang
of imagination and lies
spiraling forever into a darkness
that no one but me
will ever comprehend.