None of this matters.
My words are stale.
An extended vocabulary is
as pointless as the pencil
this was written with.
My gift of gab may have
made women wet, just as
the ink smeared on my palm,
but dilated pupils do not
read between lines, they only
see yourself in yourself in
yourself. Then you blink.
You blink because an illusion
isn't a fabricated reality as
much as it is a cue from
your damaged brain that has
always reacted faster than
a mouth expelling empty words.
This goes for *** as well.
No matter how many times
you pull out, a disappearing act
doesn't wish away a pregnancy.
Only a pill the morning after can.
And only a ****** is as expendable
as the money left on a bed side table.
Or a mattress without sheets.
Not a man that walks away in
running shoes, not living up
to his full potential.