It's no longer the heartbeat.
Echoes instead, cooing.
Placating me with serpent wishes,
selfish desires.
Succulent, sustinent.
Cheap refrains repeated as a bridge,
before the heart stopping bass drop.
Echoes again, belting.
Three fingers deep into a whiskey,
and mind you there's an e.
Cheap American heritage bundled together
like a plastic suite of day drives and night caps.
Houses made of stucco, sticking in the heat of the summer.
Another simplistic S-word statement.
Another coughing mind without abatement.
Another ******* poet *******.

Why so serious all the time
Why do the poems never rhyme
What's the meaning of
"2 AM
Standing outside
Smoking a cigarette
Talking to a trash bin"

Why do we have to act so wise
I'd rather set a poem to music
Than to set it on your eyes
But here we are because I messed up
And got no talent for anything but the abstract

Poetry, as I perceive it,
And no offence, alright;
Is not this:
Writing as I would speak to someone
Only stacking the lines one on top of the other
Instead of next to it, in a paragraph.
If I were to put my strophes in a straight line, and end up with a Facebook status,
No matter how great,
This is not my poetry.

What poetry is
The lick of moonlight that betrays the mouse’s tail
The crickets over the careful cat’s march
And a microscopic last breath between a crush of the fangs.

All I want is some sunshine
But I was not ready
Maybe if I drink this moonshine
My words will become heady.

Meta mind
I never met a mind

That can quip like me
Be quick like me

******* like me
Act stupidly

Can I buy
some cannabi

I mean cannabis
Or Activis

I'm an activist
Who lost his ****

Off my list
Don't question me, *****

Cause if you do
Then I am through

Dealing with you
Healing for you

Cause I never met a mind
Who has a meta mind

Like my mind
When it met you

Your poetry is like cinematography in my head.
How do you do it?
How do you point the formatting like a camera,
like you’re panning for gold,
and discovering something precious
so deep and real
just with the position of your italics?

I told you this,
and then you reciprocated,
saying,

I, on the other hand, use word choice
I listened and heard your intention
I choose and commit to one
like an undying promise
imbuing that choice with all the meaning I can.

You tell me you noticed,
and I suddenly had no words.

In times of great inspiration,
emotions flutter forth, escaping sensation
toward the ceaseless void.
Fragmented million-fold, but not destroyed.
Net in hand, I stand on the tips of my toes,
careful not to lose my balance,
and throw.

If I'm lucky, I feel a pull,
that lurches like a raging bull!
The fight is on! My newfound steed
pulls 'til my palms begin to bleed.
I hold fast, and though my feet begin
to leave the earth, I keep my grip.
And I'm flying.

But most often, Lady Luck is not with me.
A swing and a miss, and with a mighty blow,
my pride falls like a rotten tree,
and plunges into the terror that lurks below.
I sink in. I decompose. I sprout anew.
And though weak, my green arms reach,
instinctively, for the net.

You'll lose me on that winding road;
On the guts of you I choke.
Wrought with knots like gallows' rope,

Your poem is too long.