my poems are so good that they're bad. they are infinitely deep and meaningful and therefore don't mean anything at all.

I can say it means
A lot of different things
But when I first wrote it
It was generally *******

My life continues to end at seventy beats per minute.

“Shall we live—
just to see if we can?”

She grinned wickedly,
lips touching both ears.

She posed the question
as if I went by “Eve,”

And so I said “why not?”
then tried my hardest.

But alas,
she was nothing but a parasite.

I often contemplate the half a plate that I ate with half a face

Half this juice is past its date

I can tell by its after taste

More than a little bitter..

And the only decency is buried deep beneath the middle

But

Now
The bottom of the base of this cup is leaking too.

Or

Is that the regrets of my heart speaking through?
...
It's hard feeling like peaking when its the weekend and you're thinking while everybody is sleeping

All alone with no reason other than being a rolling stone

That just can't get no satisfaction of his own

I tainted that
So paint it black
Take it back
And make it fast
Please don't make it last

I feel as naked as a monster with no Jason Mask

I feel a weak grip on me...

In a Kryptonite crib built with a crypt
For me

Plus a wet blanket stitched

Just like a quilt!

For me.

I can't tip toe around these eggshells on stilts

You see

This poet is just a character I've imagined up

To handle the damage I've been handed

To saddle up

And steadily battle these matters up

Because the aftermath and after what is after us

Disasterous

If it catches you faster without an Acura

Or master bus pass

Must last through the night though

Tomorrow.

We'll bother to borrow somebody's light pole

The sorrow
So sour
It gets more intense by the hour

So pucker up and feel fates lips drip with power

Everything I’m writing is a waste of time .
Tell me ,
What will this change ?
How will this eliminate that pain in my chest ?
Explain how writing my thoughts out can possibly help me .
Because these words feel useless .
Half filled water balloons
but instead of water
it’s fire .
Throwing fire balloons
Yet I live in a wooden shed .
None of this makes any sense .

These words feel like they’re burning a hole
In this poem
And not one you’re likely to remember .
Something insignificant .
Something only a grain of sand could fall through .
Tell me ,
How can someone as unimportant as me
Truly be heard ?
I speak when spoken to
And sometimes I speak just because .
But instead of a voice , all you hear are squeaks.
Unused to truly vocalizing what’s important to me
Because every time I used to try to speak my piece ,
They muted me .
How can I speak
If my problems don’t mean
A **** thing .
I talk about me to me
So much yet I don’t care about me .
So , my problems ?
They mean less to me than me .

I have a friend who is a surgeon a career of his decision.
Performing tonsillectomy and frequent circumcision.
Another friend who only meets with lepers lives by prostitution.
Both taking paths in life to live by their chosen best solution.
Both very different careers by choice and so many passing ships
Both surviving and living well and both taking lots of tips.