My fingers unfold the truth
on a late night poem
in a different country
than my own–
between two black cars
a street light,
wine,
beer,
and
hard drugs
untold white lies
Do you know what's really hard?
Trying to make something beautiful or ugly
out of a lie.
This is me now
talking to the reader
or probably talking just to myself:
There's a hole in the Earth of me
my tooth has a cavity
I have a man
who can't keep
the truth in his pants
his mouth
gets real happiness
when he can bend
what's real and what
he wants me to know
which takes away any real
chance at happiness
the only real
way I can
find out the lies
is by picking
up pennies
that lead down
a trail
to girls,
coke,
hash, and
attention
seeking,
rocks
and a hard
place.
There I go again
trying to make
poetry
out of tears,
and an untrusting heart.
He makes
amazing poetry.
about nights he's lied
keeping it hidden
in metaphors
and grandiose statements
while I applaud and like each write.
I'm ******* stupid
that's probably why
he says he likes
me as much as he does
You think about
the times
when your gut told you so
or the other times
when you ate it up
like drinks and fine dining
Now you forget to smile
and things you wouldn't
think would connect dots,
begin to.
My breast hurt
and I feel a panic attack
is at the bottom of this bottle of beer
Now I can say
I didn't make a poem
cause these are just words
on a page
May 11, 2025
May 11, 2025 at 4:32 PM UTC
My fingers unfold the truth
on a late night poem
in a different country
than my own–
between two black cars
a street light,
wine,
beer,
and
hard drugs
untold white lies
Do you know what's really hard?
Trying to make something beautiful or ugly
out of a lie.
This is me now
talking to the reader
or probably talking just to myself:
There's a hole in the Earth of me
my tooth has a cavity
I have a man
who can't keep
the truth in his pants
his mouth
gets real happiness
when he can bend
what's real and what
he wants me to know
which takes away any real
chance at happiness
the only real
way I can
find out the lies
is by picking
up pennies
that lead down
a trail
to girls,
coke,
hash, and
attention
seeking,
rocks
and a hard
place.
There I go again
trying to make
poetry
out of tears,
and an untrusting heart.
He makes
amazing poetry.
about nights he's lied
keeping it hidden
in metaphors
and grandiose statements
while I applaud and like each write.
I'm ******* stupid
that's probably why
he says he likes
me as much as he does
You think about
the times
when your gut told you so
or the other times
when you ate it up
like drinks and fine dining
Now you forget to smile
and things you wouldn't
think would connect dots,
begin to.
My breast hurt
and I feel a panic attack
is at the bottom of this bottle of beer
Now I can say
I didn't make a poem
cause these are just words
on a page
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