I'm always running late
And some may say it's fate
Or simply in my DNA
But maybe--just maybe
It's because deep down below
I know that when I die
My tombstone won't read
"If only she could be time."

Danger, dirt and grime
penetrate my mind
With time, I find
I'm getting cruder
I flop to the floor
on bended knees
I weep for me
and only me
Because who else in
this Great Big World
gives a flying frisbee

Acrostic poems shouldn't be reserved for the
Mildly ******* fifth graders who still can't identify
Arkansas on a blank map of the United States.
Real "poets" use formulas, too. Are you trying to tell me
Elizabethan sonnets hold more "poetic" merit
Than this skillfully crafted,
Thought-provoking
Ode to my favorite liqueur?

I'm ******* everything out of my skull
and putting it in a mason jar.
For safe keeping and for secret keeping.

I'm forcing everything I feel into a field.
A field with deer ticks and poison ivy.
And plenty of mosquitoes.

I'm pushing all of the twists and turns in my stomach
down through my legs and into my toes.
So I can do my nervous dance and never
let my heels touch the ground.

I'm filling up a baby pool with all the things I've learned.
I'll do a dead man's float and get a sunburn.
I'll peel away my flakes of skin and
overnight them to my future self.

So what if it's an ice cream fetish?
I'll relish in knowing I'm less ****** up than you.
I'm sad in an "Atkins diet is healthy" kinda way.
I'm so done that you need to quick!
take me out of the oven and carve me up for your family!
"Sorry, I think it's a little dry this year."
"Oh, no! Not at all! Did you find this glaze online?"
I can't stand being alone, which is normal.
If God is the DJ, he's not playing enough practical jokes.

Lemme set fire to your home.
Call the fuzz, I'll pick it out
my navel and run.
You'll never catch my intent
cuz it's way over the foul line
and into the nosebleeds.

It's like you took a rag,
soaked it in sorrow,
wrung it out into a bucket,
dumped that bucket
into a bathtub,
and baptized yourself.