The problem with poetry
and it's iterations within our
generation is that we have
grown soft as writers.
We are so worried about
if she thinks about us, or
whether he really loved us.
Or if our hearts will ever be
fixed again. It is disgusting.
Have some spine, comrades!
**** yourself a ****** on the
floor of the cheap motel.
Drink the bourbon out the bottle
until you puke your mother's
homemade meatloaf into
the kitchen sink. Hell, do
whatever needs to be done,
let's just stop with the
dramatic, self righteous ****.
She ****** someone else
because he was better, he
doesn't love you because
he doesn't have to. Your
heart was never broken.
Have a drink with me and
let's go out, give ourselves
something real to write about.