i thought of him
and those hands
and that beard
dear god, he is ecstasy.

i thought of that laugh
and that smile
and those blue, blue eyes.
i cannot get enough.

the thought of his tie
and those lips
and the way he sticks out his tongue.
i sure would like a taste of him.

i thought about him
and his brain
and about what he thinks about,
maybe he thinks of me?

he must think of me,
he gives me gifts
and tells me he loves me.
doesn't that mean he cares?

maybe i'll never know.

It's another slew of ****** poetry
so publish this junk
so I can sell my work to people who can't read
let me tell you about David
he is a *****
not a literal ******,
that'd be ridiculous,
what I mean is -
he admits to having emotions
what a *** right?
but his emotions come on too strong
cologne on some ***** in a bar
and he doesn't know what to do with them
so he empties out every bottle
and fills them with his tears
then he thinks he might see something amid the pain
something to throw together
so he stacks the bottles in a jaunty pyramid
and calls it art
how ******* deep of him
he loves girls
fears rejections
so his trash cans are filled with old cummy wads of tissue paper
and wakes up hung over and nervous about everything
I hate him almost as much as I love him

Then there's Jake -
a grade A ****
no really, he is
Violent
angry for no reason other than it makes him feel good
he views women as three holes to put on his trophy case
he puts cigarettes out on his arm
and throws every thing anybody he ever loved ever gave him
back in their face
with a hefty helping of satirical, cynical, sarcasm
but say what you want about Jake
He get's **** done
and the **** he does only helps him out
Jake and David
they are best ******* buds
and God knows why
because most of the time
you can walk in on them
choking each other to death in the night
only to hug it out the next morning
Jake and David
star crossed lovers
holding desperately onto each other
as they make their way down the dark, frothing river of life

There's gotta be something to all this
he says
he pleads
he reaches out for something concrete to mix his ideals in with
there's gotta be something to it
he says
well explain what it is to me.
it's like
I see the world before me
every place that ever was
ever will be
I see all of this
and all of the people -
silly little things bouncing around the galactic pin ball table
and it's like I'm waiting for the bonus round
I'm not following you
that's the problem
nail on the ******* head doc
nobody follows me
or maybe I don't follow them
they say Hello how are you doing
and all I hear is
sroeijfapoirjfpaiorjvpioserhvipshfvjipsrjvarjv[oisjgv[js[voijn­raoijoi[sjvijsr[jsr[i,vjsoirjvso[itjsoiernaudrv;jzdnfv;ndfvi;ondf­oibnsoinb Why ******* bother?
and I don't know why I bother
ya know, doc?
because I see myself in a cracked mirror
a really introspective, deep thinking, wordsmith of the people by the people for the people
here to wake people up, to put some ******* oomph in their step
then it changes
out of my left eye I see
the waste of space siphoning oxygen and turning it into ****
so **** yourself to make the world a better place, right? only I know that it's not right. When I am awake in bed at five am craving anything to shut my brain up I think of her, or the other ones, or my Mother and how much wasted potential it would be. Potential I don't have. Potential everybody tells me is there. Go to school. Move to san fran, or LA, or the big apple, flee. But I can't leave them.
Slow down son, you're rambling.
sorry doc, it's just the world moves at a set speed, and inside my head is a washing machine full of shoes and bricks on way too high a setting.
so why do you write?
because If I didn't this would all come out in much unhealthier ways. I have to stop myself from spearing the woman with her baby with my Hyundai accent hatchback 2011. I clench my fist so tight, that my fingernails cut my palm - If only I didn't bite them raw and ******.
Where do you think this all comes from, this feeling of anxiety?
where? what the **** kind of a question is that, doc?
just do your best
my best will never be good enough. Because the world is empty and void and full of people who would sell you as Joseph just for a technicolored dream coat.
That reference is so outdated, who is it for?
certainly not the people who like my work. I write poetry for a world that doesn't give a **** about poetry.
you don't really write poetry though, do you? You just rant and then hit enter to give the appearance of lines and stanzas.
You're right. I dropped out of school for this **** and all I can churn out is infantile angsty *******. I hate the people who practice self harm. It seems laughable to me. If you need help ask. If you want to die, Die. Nobody is stopping you. Then again, I want to save every kid who thinks they are ****** up or not worth it or hopeless. Maybe I read the catcher in the Rye one too many times. But Salinger had it right. He just locked himself away from the world so he could write.
I think we're about to run out of time
Doc, my time ran out a long while ago. My whole life has been spent running away from the last falling grain of sand
so the same time next week?
sure, doc, why the **** not, I mean you don't even really exist.
You are just the dead air when I'm at my most lonesome. This office - just my empty car, my bed in late and early hours and this patient is just another kid thinking he is the exception only to realize we're all being flushed down the same ****** toilet.
So yeah, same time next week I guess

I write about my own life too much
and I don't think complaining is art
sure you may relate to the ******* I spout
but don't you think I wrote it with you in mind
you are never in my mind
My thought process goes like this:
1) how can I score something to get me high
2) what is the best way I can shirk my responsibilities
3) how can I write something to prove how smart and deep I am
4) how can I convince her to **** me
I need validation
I need to be left alone
I need to be kicked in the ***
I need to grow up
but I won't
call me Peter ******* Pan
only it's not Never Never land we fly to
no I convince you you can follow me out of your bedroom window
take flight with me
then I watch as your body explodes ****** and mangled on the concrete of your parents' driveway
then I write a poem about how hard it was for me to watch
My poems are selfish
because *******

Baby, let me be your puppeteer
pulling at those strings we both know so well
jerking you to make you do the things I like
I'll tell you I love you
if that's the sorta thing you're interested in
me, I'm more of a instant self gratification kind of guy
so light daddy's cig
and maybe take that pretty little mouth downstairs
tell yourself you're doing it because I love you and you love me back
go ahead doll face, now wear those shorts I like
he doesn't hate women. He just really really loves them
sure thing sweet heart, whatever gets you going
tell yourself I cut those strings a while ago
go ahead
but remember to get my blood flowing
boiling over
in the morning I won't want to remember your face
dance for me puppet
before I put you back in that closed box