This is *******
This is poetry, baby
It's not all about gentle kisses, and
Sweet description
Sometimes it's about getting
f*cked

Bruised, and mishandled
Like the last fruit in the produce bin
I don't know if I can
Kiss away your pain, but
I'm up for the challenge

I take my coffee
Black, and
Frequently refilled
Or
Cold tea, sun-warmed
By the windowsill
That is...
Until

It's a widely-acceptable hour
For whiskey

Vices
Break the ice, is
What she said
So a stiff drink, I poured
'I'll try anything that you've tried before'

I didn't show my face
I simply disappeared
A party trick
One for the years

I am
A slave to likes and reaction
To the effect of
Altering my work
In a deplorable display, of
Pandering
Should I reduce my word count?
Should I trim my magnum opus?
Lean poems are easier to digest
Should I exercise restraint, and
Cut lbs off my body of work?

If I had the stemware, and
The ability to assemble the words
I'd raise a glass, and
Toast the unwavering stupidity of
Love