The biggest compliment he could get was,
“I like that.”
“That’s creative,” coming in a close second.
Spaceship flying *******
That last word’s disingenuous.
I’ve only ****** a ******.
She’s only ****** me.
I guess we got that going for us.
He stares at a pad and paper,
Or maybe the computer equivalent.
Who trusts their own hand to be honest?
Who entrusts tomes to their own handwriting?
I mean, can you read that ****?
I guess if you were slow and methodical,
But stream-of-consciousness doesn’t allow that,
Even if the tag is a little off.
I’ve got money to keep living,
Even if most of it is credit.
What’s my side hustle?
Using my debit.
Let it alone, is what I called the last ****
God, if I could turn these to hits.
Some bangers, some ear-worms.
I just want someone to read this,
And be like, “****, I feel heard.”
I think I’m ****** up,
An island in an ocean,
An ocean full of people;
Welcome, you’re alone.
Let’s talk in Scrabble
Bananagrams from the mouth
******* off the dome.
Computer programs, give me courage
I used to be able to program my feelings
Now I got pills for that.
If I get in some sort of feeling, I'll write. Today's the day, I guess.
I feel like ****
I've hit a ditch
Flipped my side
****** my ride
I'm in the pit
I ate a 'wich
I saw the tide
The Dude Abides
**** with your human
Lack of dereliction
Leaves me inordinate
I'm a work of fiction
Take me and my dic(k)tion
I am losing friction:
I'm falling out my mind.
I am a line
stick me in or snort me, Courtney
Battle rap fake fools
in mind games and rhyme schemes
that really exist in your vehicle
I'll be blood work,
you play needle
Listened to Migos instead of the Beatles.
The simplistic tale of a man wanting to write a thing.
I paced back and forth
Kitchen to living
Bowl in hand, I seat myself.
Discomfort leads to frustration,
Frustration gives way to irritation
Irritation is stopped by standing again.
“It’s just breakfast,” I say to myself.
I can eat anyway I want, **** it.
But as I try to plop on the leather couch once again,
Some of the ever-precious cereal milk flows forth
From the lip of the bowl
To my pajama’d pants.
I’m going to stand and eat.
Why even consider this a poem?
Take it back,
but it's too late.
Ink scribbled on rustic pages,
or pages made to look rustic.
Let's face it: you bought this notebook at a bookstore.
It's got to look special for all your elaborate gifts to the world.
You're that special snowflake, yeah?
Your writing against the world of oppressive darkness
surrounding your poor brain, boy.
Write your way out.
****** Toons the wall, and make sure your escape.
Hey girl, I’m a mess.
You’re a “private ****” with a holster
I’m a private **** undercover;
All I want is to **** and be heard.
I’m sure I can go without the latter;
Just **** me like I matter.
It’d be easier if you’d have your life figured out.
That line goes for us both, I suppose.
I keep thinking it’s easier to drive her away,
I’m not enough.
So I’m looking through a window, at a woman I don’t really love.
Wondering if she’s the secret key,
Like there is one.
I suppose that’s why **** is so easy, right?
You come with me.
It doesn’t matter what I have in my pocket,
What the bad things I did today were,
Who the **** I am.
I’m just a private ****.
Tonight's listening: "first take"- Travis Scott