I used to hold your head against my chest
I used to hold you in the highest regard
The pinnacle of creation: the woman
But now I find nothing special about you
My heart may stutter for a moment,
But I'm only being fooled by who I imagine you are
I can never know what goes on in you
I can only guess
Who falls in love with a guess?
I guess wrong
My theories about your mystery
Fall flat on their face,
Crushed by the weight of your actions

I only read out of a sense of longing
It never fulfills
So I read less and less
Of the poets I love
I love less and less
Of the people I know
Of people I knew
Of myself
I hate more
The walls need
to have holes stomped in them
My grammar and structure
Need to go **** themselves
You need to listen
And quit being a *******
And I need to call Papa
He's my favorite man
We haven't talked for months
When he dies,
That's when I'll do the stomping
I'll be more alone
Even though he barely knows me

You know everything there is to know
About how to be right

You've got a chip on your shoulder
Camouflaged by a calm demeanor

Words like "science" provide you with finality
They build a framework to make sense
Of a world that is unexplainable
Your very existence is inexplicable,

So hide hide hide behind your "facts"
And run run run from your fears
While your anger at illogical people
Pushes anyone with a kind heart away

And you remain alone
But at least you've got your facts

Someone spread **** all over your locker,
and I don't care
They're the ones playing with ****
Someone else cleaned it up
So what do you care?

I'm a 21st century man, baby
You've got that intelligence
That personality
That heart I'm looking for
But she...
She's gorgeous
I'll go with her

I'm drunk and I want you
I make a fool of myself,
But I'm thinking about you
Is that so wrong?

It takes everything I have
to write my thoughts
and leave them as they are.
The truth is they're messy,
and my feelings are messier.

The glass jar I drink from
would make for some kind of release
if I threw it at the wall
with the energy I use to write.
And I think about doing so frequently.

Violence against the walls in my house
has become a more pervasive fantasy than ***.
It's been a few weeks since I destroyed my dresser.
I'm not sure the writing provides the same outlet.