I ordered, Chinese food, last night, cracked a cookie, the slip of paper, told me, I was, going to, die, and that I, needed to, live, my life, instead, I swallowed, the words, of advice, we never take, but probably, should.
Goodbye Shirley, my dear friend, Our time together has come to an end. I'll miss your smile, your laughter And all the times we've shared a bit.
You've been there for me through thick and thin, And I'll always cherish the memories within. But now it's time to say goodbye, And let our paths diverge and fly.
May your journey be filled with joy and light, And may you find happiness in every sight. Goodbye Shirley, my dear friend, Until we meet again, our friendship won't end.
Maybe I'll find a 100-dollar bill amidst the burnt umber maple leaves. Maybe the ambulance will come disguised as an ice cream truck. Perhaps I'll find a warm forgotten can of beer in the dryer. Maybe, I'll blow up the moon.
I'm losing it. My pants won't stay up, and I haven't got a belt. I'm being devoured by the autumn winds and the grackles.
Insomnia is crushing me. Febrile and ferocious, I stalk the university streets, too sick to work. Maybe this abscessed tooth will **** me.
I used to pound out 12 hour days in the hot July bean fields. Farmer John always smiling and shaking his head.
Life is a bologna sandwich, and I write these little poems in yellow mustard. And I wait.
Just wait.
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There is a monster under my bed. Hauting, screaming, hurting me. It talks to me every night. I believe it doesn't want me here. It screams and cries, acts more like a child than me. It smells of the bottles in the glass container. It stumbles up the stairs. It opens every window, let's the cold winter frost in and hopes it freezes time. Instead, it freezes me. I wait, behave, hope. I stay silent so it doesn't notice I'm here. Tomorrow it will wake me up. Tomorrow it will attend a parent-teacher conference. Tomorrow they will praise it. "You did a good job raising her" Tomorrow it will turn into my mother. Tomorrow night, the monster returns.
I'm the worst poet alive If I were to write you something, I'd spend not hours but days Even years Struggling with the right words Investing my body and soul into each and every verse I'd tell myself after 5 minutes of writing "I need a break, this isn't working out." After every fleeting emotion was carefully gift wrapped Between those immortal lines and thoughtful metaphors I'd spend a few more days questioning myself Thinking I don't deserve you You'd tell me "It's alright. If you want to let it go, you can." I'd tell myself, this isn't real and its different this time
I'm truly the worst poet alive Because no matter what I say or write I can't make you stay
Poor self esteem breaks more bonds than you can imagine.