I'm a feral child
and suddenly,
I'm home

some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be mony and ****** and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.

Hi.

(It's been so long and I miss you so ******* much)

I figured I'd call you to cheer you up but you're not answering your phone

(I called because my will power ***** and I know you've been hurting. I'm crushed that you didn't answer because I just want to hear the sound of your voice so I won't forget what it sounds like. I miss that cherry pepper melody of compliments and lies.)

And mines almost dead

(Losing hope of finally hearing that song, so spicy and sweet)

and we're still four hours outside Minneapolis, so...

(Here comes four more hours of thinking about you and brooding about the past that I'll have to endure. Four hours of wondering what we would have talked about if you had answered.)

I don't know if you're sleeping or if

(I really hope you didn't see my name on your caller ID and endure the torturous ringing of that vintage telephone ring tone and feel the vibrations and hums of my call in your hands all the way up until now when I'm recording this message, because deep down I have false hope that you miss me as much I miss you. God, I ******* miss you.)

...

(Static/bad reception)

dead.

(Like I wish I was)

Talk to you soon maybe

(Maybe I will feel this brave tomorrow, or maybe I'll just regret leaving this message and never talk to you again. I haven't decided yet.)

Have a good day at school

(I wish you still told me every detail about your day. I wish I was still sitting next to you and holding your hand and not able to keep my hands off your *** as you told me about your classes.)

tomorrow*

(Tomorrow never seems to go as planned.)

Your vision
determines the placement of your skull

So turn your head
and look the other way

I'll look that way too.
I've never seen anything as beautiful
as the back of your head
as you focus on walking forward
far away

You walk on tears
like they're made of kitchen floor tiles

You're not Jesus
You can't pull that **** off

You're the protagonist
of a story that makes you out to be hero
by filling the bed in my heart with onyx secondhand exhaust
(it still smells like you)
for my own good
Hoping my life is meaningless
forcing me to hate you and hate myself
for my own good

You're not Edward Cullen
You can't pull that **** off

I hope you still feel almighty and hot
when you realize how honest I was.

In the end all I see is hate
and self-loathing
and kitchen tiles stained with tear streaks