I scroll down
on poetry websites
such as All/Hello poetry
and I read the poems
on both of them
and they're all the same
either with too much
imagery and metaphor
they remind me of that saying
less is more.
Then there's the ones
who rhyme and they sound
like children's books
they don't understand
how writing
a good rhyming poem
is harder than
committing ******
and getting away with it.
That's why I avoid them at all costs.
And finally,
there's the fictional poems
often tied to contests
and they're often either
nursery rhyme poems
or drift store Picasso imitations.
I don't get it.
Why don't people just talk
about their day and how
folding the laundry
or scrubbing the toilet
somehow gave them an epiphany
that made them write a poem
about their most recent ****** encounter
with their wife that was way better
than their previous one?
If they would apply this philosophy
into their poems
then I wouldn't be stuck
reading about
the sick, the dying, and the dead.

Bile Addict
The truth comes out like stomach acid
burning the whole way up.
Needed and sometimes even wanted.
None the less still painful.
Still burning in your throat and in my ears.
A part of me feels like you hope this is my final straw and that I will finally throw in the towel.
A part of me was hoping that too, my Sweet.
Instead I take that straw to my nose
I use it to do a big ol line of the vile truth
while I push past the pain of the drip and the foul taste of your words
I try not to let you see the salty tears forming in my eyes.
I fold the towel you wish I would throw,
as perfect as I can
I walk to the closet that has the least amount of skeletons to put it away.
I don't have enough spine to declutter closets today.
Today Im no better than you.
I lie to myself and convince myself you could someday care, so that I can stomach
the urge I have to lie next to you.

have done so much wrong
that i have forgotten my
mind is confused truth

“when I see the moon rise in the deep sky, all  
large and looming,   that is hope

and as the sun is red-setting, throwing its last rays
of God-love over the hills,   that is hope

when a ranger sees the homeless man parked in
his illegal overnight spot, and decides not to
disturb his sleep,   that is hope

when you hear a dream from a friend of a wall of
steel wrapping your home whilst fire tornadoes
around it, and wake to find yours one of two
homes still standing,   that is hope

when a son who has received absolutely every
reason to leave, Will Not Abandon his abusive
elderly mother,   that is hope

when the city dims down enough to see the darkness,
lit by a Universe of stars——”

The worst part was thinking I saw you,
A you with depth,
A depth that matched mine,
But you just turned out to be
like everyone else.

The way
I love you isn't perfect-
it's probably not the way
you dreamed of.
I imagine you thought
someone would understand
you more,
not be so volatile
maybe even less of what I am-
show
and
give.

I'm sorry I can't give you
the things you deserve
or the way you deserve to be treated.
That the stars hang low
not low enough to touch
but near enough to tease.

I want to be more for you,
in ways that I struggle.
I wish on those same stars
that they'd fall
softly
one by one
to comfort you
gently,
kiss you
slowly
and burn at a pace
that's suitable
for a gentleman
such as yourself.

You deserve
every
thornless rose
and a vase
without holes
that keeps the water in
not drip
by drip emptying it out.
not to question if the
vase is still there
or wonder where
the cracks are.

You deserve someone
who can dedicate
beautiful poetry to you.
One who can hold a candle to
your own.
Not someone who
fumbles with words-
can't string together
a metaphor
or misinterpret
your brilliance
for whiskey
without a little water.

I love you
the only way I can.
Like butter
that over-saturates
toast, that's straight
from the toaster
with no chance to cool.
As mud is born with dirt
and soil.

I love you with all
my darkness
in every shadow.
Behind the front door
with a gun
locked and loaded
safety
still on.

I love you to
where my pride gets
stuffed down an old
Christmas stocking,
not with trinkets
and sweets
but with
coal.
I want more
of you
less of
myself.
So I can be
satisfied with your stillness.
Your own starfish
deep down in the depths
of a forgotten sea
that has
no name.

Let it all take me
into your arms
in your teddy bear embrace
with doe eyes
and a silent song that sings
only for me.

and as I struggle to end
this so-called poetry.
I'll put out this cigar
sink into my quicksand bed
kiss your sleeping lips
and hang my crown
on the tombstone.