I don't want to write anymore
The need walked away
and left me with
a balance of zero
All the fire and searing pain
are now cold wet embers
in the morning dew
The lines of love
have turned yellow
in their newspaper ways
Cold dead headlines
that hold no importance
I will bury
the lifeless desire
in old notebooks
that will be shelved
and forgotten
When asked
if I once wrote poetry
I will scoff
and say ,"Who Me ?"
For there is no longer
a reason

Curdling and festering; his hate would burst. It would burst like the **** from a boil.

The old man sits in the dark,
fire by his radio, listening to
John Legend sing about his all,
which I guess is a lot since
he goes on about it for
four or five ******* minutes.
I sit here and think about all the reasons
I hate 13 Reasons Why. I sit here and
smell my candle, to my future.
I think about Miley Cyrus *******
and wonder if she feels pleasure
  like you or me.

I don't know what kind of creature
  is out there.  I don't know
how  to  feel  about  the  world.
My bedroom door may be paranoid
for me,   and I have anxiety over
  knocking that may never come.
Or maybe it will come and I'll
  be ordinarily unprepared for it.
Unprepared for it, as I normally am.

Visions of Japanese women
  dance on the ceiling, like silver
statues in garments of gore.
Or maybe they're not Japanese
and that I am a racist or under-
-educated -- which is most likely
the  same  ****  thing.
  They dance on my ceiling
and I stare, no longer wondering
if I'm rude, if they're real, if
the house I live in is current-
-ly losing value. These type
of things just happen, swear.

My candle is burning bright,
reaching towards the hugging
  blinds; smelling like sea salt
and an ocean I will never touch.

Jazz women clap in unison, black.
All the boys in the club move
way, way over, for your health,
sister.
Some bartenders smoke ****
while polishing glasses, big or
small.
Cartoons play on box t.v.s
while people look at hubs on
smartphones.
Some gruff guy points at you
-- and, yes, it could have been
me --
we have a phone call, I think.
Who uses a payphone, any-
-****-more.

Choir children double for choir
mice.
Helicopter parents hover their
hands above their juniper drinks.
Gesturing at poorly dressed kids
has never been this in fashion.
Be perfect for the camera;
this moment will be captured
by synthetic eye.
Moms and Brads turn to
  look at us laugh.  Which has
always been in poor taste.
They say my poetry is bad
and your music is **** -- but
I guess it's nice that someone
  gave us those views.

Columbia and Harvard
seem like distant planets.
But that's where we'll be,
supposedly.
You with your Guinness,
me with my Tito's.

I'm lost.
I don't know what to do.
People scream at me.
Tell me I'm worthless,
I'm a horrible person,
That I need to change.
But I can't.
I've tried and yet you still say these things
What am I doing wrong?
What can I do to become the person you can love?
What can I do to become the girl people won't hate?

Words, thoughts
Tangled together in my mind,
Waiting for the one little push
That makes me fall off the edge.