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
I'm unimportant
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.

I paced back and forth
Kitchen to living
Room
Bowl in hand, I seat myself.
Discomfort.
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.
Thanks, breakfast.

Why even consider this a poem?
Unwrite it.
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 guess.
I’m a private **** undercover;
I jest.
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 ****.

I give, I give, and I taketh away.
I’m left with nothing at the end of the day.

I’m left speechless, you’ll give speeches
But I’ll be far away.
The frustration lies within.
I hear your voice in my head
Screaming,
“******* live better.”
I’d be better off Red.
At least I’d live happy, margins well below.
But you wouldn’t let me,
You’d have nothing to show.

Leave your fears at the door,
Young child.
The winter wind sweeps close.
If you are not careful,
The frostbite will get your nose.

I’m empty; I’m flawless
I need more than this.
I can’t be me, and what you want at the same time.
I guess ignorance is bliss.

"Just remember the last password,"
Passing out over dog turds
As they flush out their ***** soaked linens.

A second away, a crusader she stays,
letting men and women, alike, hit rock bottom.
Her hair properly coiffed,
Her apron in a knot,
tied neatly, behind her back.
She waters the garden,
begs for no pardons
and awaits the hose to lose its slack.

Hollow bodies all toil in compassion for something they truly want,
but we speak as if the truth were individual, subjective; there's no line in the sand into what's bad unless everyone agrees.

Who's really wrong? What's really wrong?

Can we ever hope to draw a lion?
I ****** up a serious tone with a joke.

"I ****** THE FIDDLY-WIDGET!"

You scream down a naked hallway.
They wear no clothes, you know.
Unabashed knaves.

It's two in the morning,
And nothing glimmers with any sort of light.

The ceiling lamp is buzzing its way into oblivion, and my computer screen won't stop screaming my face off as words continue to recreate themselves all over this paperwork I like to call poetry.

There are clothes on the floor.
A lump that literally states "I'm a bachelor with no tastes";
All my clean clothes are unfolded.

I take time for ******* pageantry, as if video games, film, and other likewise media are my lasting friends.

"Look at me,
I know so much!"
He kindly curtseys to the judge
as he skips away so gayly.

An "Always Sunny" Marathon, at my place maybe?
He says like a Jewish Decapodian, scarfing down some bay leaf.
Just kidding, I'm way too poor for that.

I'm supposed to have my **** together;
I'm supposed to buy a house!
I scream, I rant, I rave, I shout!
Until another stupid ******* ***** me a good one,
Right on the mouth.

I mumble for weeks; I continue on.
Let us all sing, again, the soldier's song:

"Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!'

Oh God, what have you done?
Brought politics into a world that had none?
Forever tainted this bill of mine,
For it's possible that it 'twas not designed
for a working world,
for a human social structure,
for a being who's supposed to be good.

We get a mockery each time,
Spit dereliction, each line.

It's been a long time since I ****** with a pen.
Told my lady tonight something I just can't forget:
If you really love something, at least do it on the side.

So welcome me back, O wordsmith, if you would delight.

If not, fade me to alignment of some other greater ill,
fate me worse none, than one thought, but I will still keep a bill
of every broken, ****** up, and beautiful thing that I've been given,
and I'll still want to turn that **** into a living.

He sat listless
As tv static called in distance

Move your hands
Not your legs
Exercise nothing
Your brain should be empty

As inky black tendrils consume all that he is,
was, hopes to ever be,
he attempts not
to provide a decent fight,
or a fight at all.

He remains listless
Feeling the pain of every single movement
In the lingering darkness of his surroundings

I haven't written in a long time.
The slave-driving mind of mine forces these chained hands
into spilling ink to canvas.

The woods are crawling with impossibilities,
as the nowhere home calls me evermore.

I walk a distance to find myself back at the entrance of it all.
The alpha, the beginning.

Is this growth? Is this monumental?
--
We give credence to paper.
It's no longer a tool for survival, but a god in our pockets.
A Christmas ******* miracle.
There are times where I'd like to cry,
But as a friend said, "my tear ducts were seared closed long ago."
--
The Forest crawls with impossibilities.
The trees beckon,
and I slowly begin again.

I left my brain to the left of the stove.
I think it's on fire.

Run the ******' Jewels, friend.

I try to write to the beat,
but **** it, I'll just strip instead.

I work in sales; I work in industry.
****, the things I say are all lies,
so what's the point of even writing them?

Because I can't write good truth for the life of me.
I can speak it though.

Catch me in court, cuz I'm trying to be hard.
It's all *******. It's just a parking ticket.

We're obsessed with hard *******, and chill *** ******.
#blacklivematters
It's true, and we're all in danger.

Who else grew up in the suburbs but is trying to go hard as they can?
Masculinity means cars, cash, *******, and ***.
If you ain't getting *****, you just a *****.

Thanks Drake, for teaching us what's important.
Kendrick speaks to 'Pac, I wonder if he used ouija board.
It's the weird line between demonic and technology.

I'm just writing off the dome,
I wonder how different this would be if I were sitting at the seafoam.

Let's praise our idols; not praise our God.
Let's ****, ****, lick, blow.
We all know there is no next show...

So what the **** are you living for?

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.

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.

The shells and mortar plink and blast around him.
Razor wire stretches as far as the eye can see.
Pitfalls, muddied dirt, and God only knows what else
is all within the path that is entrenched before him.

He took up his rifle a long time ago;
pledging to do what he had to,
pledging to defend what he ought.

He took many laborious steps alone.
He crawled beneath the wires.
He dodged the mortar shots,
though the debris was a much harder hazard to avoid.
He even fell into some pitfalls,
but managed to pull himself out of that muddied dirt.

He felt alone on the battlefield.
And from where he was positioned,
bullets rained down upon him.
He sought safety behind a wall of the very same
muddied dirt that had been his hazard.

And just when he felt he could go no further,
a hand reached in front of him, offering to pull him to
a safer place.
It was a hand that all at once seemed familiar and foreign,
known and unknown.

And the man to whom the hand belonged simply smiled at the soldier,
and said, "We're moving on."

Putting fingers to keys
is as laborious as pushing a nail through my flesh.

Slow, painful, and weighted.

If there were something to say, it's been said before.
If there was something to do, it's been done before.

I am a mouth of sand overflow.
My hands do nothing but bring shame upon my family name,
and my feet sludge through confusion and ambiguity.

"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.

Writing,
Reflecting the inmost being, or simply what's wallowing at the top of the subconscious.
Consciousness, divinity, split pea soup shredding through me.
Mental perceptivity and **** beads: better out than in, I always say.
Check yourself before you Shrek yourself.
Green Onions tell me in grocery stores, "It's never Ogre."

I once thought the world to be flat. Maybe you thought that, perhaps you didn't.
Fluid change of though patterns strike at the heal of the what wasn't.
Wasps leave me be. I drained the pool where I used to be.
He told me the other day; he told me nothing.

Hugh Jackman's nasally in the Les Miserables film.  That doesn't rhyme with anything, it's just true.

I wish there was a word for my
mixed-up,
leftover insides.

I am my own Temple of Doom.
I will or I won't
Bring you to swoon.
Get me the spoon.
I am Captain: Ben and Jerry's
Vessel be my scurvy.
Mastering epitome, feeling marscapone:
I am the color of your liver.

If I put on a hoodie, I feel more "me", but where was I left?
Where am I grazing?
Surely it's on greener pastures?

Am I dead?
Who are you?
Is this what we're all searching for?
Separation?

I ran the decathalon; choke down my python.
There's a fire in your mouth.
Let me put it out.

A discontented silence raised itself among the fellows

Which of us?

Then it becomes a ******* race.

I write to seek and to find

Please, someone define the languish of hypocrisy
I can do me all by myself

Scattered brain splattering
Jackson *******'s word-painting
Find Pascal's triangle inside me
I hope it's in the mouth.

Arbitrary. Periods.

Here I am, delirious

Pig body with a man's face
eradicating the human race

Possibly the opposite
balance melons, call 'em ****

The anger uprising
OBEY surprising

Read what it says on the back of my Oakleys
Made in China

Considered derailment

Cannot understand the Satan in a man to commit the heinous crime of ****
To another human being, for goodness sake!

Prayer, prayer,
with unanswered need.

Read these words, take some heed
None of us gain anything from the sin of greed.

Spinning, spinning:
Tread lightly, so softly

She pitter patters 'cross The floor

Mirrors show the grace
and softened steps
and light reflect the tenacity at which she pursues them both

Pat
pat
pat
Pit
pit
pit

Plie

A pawn
It sits atop a white square
its blackened wood contrasting

The lawn
the dirt and rooted mixture
Sitting atop, or simply 'is' Earth

The people
all alike and different
casting shadows, shapes, and 'morrows

This poem
a collection of words and phrase
fitting neither in reality nor falsehood.

With ode to the blue skies
and fan-fares of yesteryears

To the bitter cold realities of
Ten-plus pills per morning

I wept on the clouds of
dream-like depressions

And you, and you, and you,
You're gonna love me.

I have written since
I have written hence
and on my emotions,
Someone pressed mute.

I give a hoot
owls, towels
Showering
owl-ring

Let's make *** to Sam Smith

We are ocean

We are unfurled fury
We are peaceful compassion
We are unknown

As we push against the sands of time
Irreconcilable
We beat, we beat, we lapse

Children await us
Searching the horizons for our source of strength

And the sun sets once more
relinquishing it's last bit of light
giving a reflection of what can be.

Writing is soul less as Icarus finally
touches the sun

Burning, burning Willow trees
my mind is yet undone

The smoke illuminates nothing but
the fragile frame

I wrote, I wrote, I wrote for this
and yet I still feel the same

tweet my injustice
Let's all us combustus
and fritter away french fries
from the local till us nuts

Freakin' Friday
Meek and Nigh may
take away the saltines from the
mouths of youths
and put a large bass in my
kissing booth

I am Xavier
I am Charles
I once supposited a pack of
Marlboro's
Shamus mc ****, Batman
the 'copter's on down furrows

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 really hope there's sincerity in my words
For how many times I've been misled
Or misfed
Or purposefully choosing the wrong way

I realize it's humanity
We are perpetually weighed down by sin
But it was crucified, right?
Am I safe?

Faith without works is lost
I can't claim birthright without acting upon it
Right?

If I alienate myself from my Father,
will I be put in the will?

I'm scared.
I'm strong.
I'm proud.
I'm selfish.
And I'm trying
Sincerely

There's nothing more humbling
Than a good ***** up, right?

I read another's poem
And lost the one I was to write.