I often see poems that go by "untitled".
Some may even refer their poems as "Untitled" with capitalized importance.
"Untitled" is not to be, nor should it be, mistaken for "unimportant".
The work is still in process.
It has importance.

I often write poems that go by titles.
Some may even say that my poems are "Unoriginal" with cliche names.
"Unoriginal" is not to be, nor should it be, mistaken for "unintentional".
The work went through the process.
It has intention.

I often read poems because of their titles.
Some may even claim that their poems are "Profound" with unlimited potential.
"Profound" is not to be, now should it be, mistaken for "invaluable".
The work is still processing.
Its value has yet to be seen.

i thought you were as gentle as the flower on my windowsill
instead, you were a double sided blade piercing my skin
and you didn't even know
my name

I kept wondering if I would outgrow
The feelings of eyes on me.

I have yet to believe that they
Aren’t all staring.
I have yet to forget the taste
Of waxy nothingness on my tongue,
The guilt of sleepless nights,  
The odd feeling of waking and
Not believing the world around me.

Each tree has grown mouths,
All are laughing.

I walk my dog and I feel the heat
Slither around my spine.
The cars driving by are all looking.
Why do I feel like someone is following me?
I check over my shoulder.

I am submerged in warm ocean.
I can breathe, but for how long?

i want to kiss you
at every red light
both figuratively and literally

i want to kiss you
when life gets hard
and when **** happens

i want to kiss you
in the 30 seconds we have
at each intersection

i want to kiss you
always.

I am a perpetually uncertain individual.

Or the opposite.

I don't have anything to do with this

          imperfect receptacle,
light of pre-dawn-breaker-
bringer of boredom.

                    There are systemic means of
                    hurting oneself, the constant

ripping and stitching of that cherry-
          covered cloth

                    it's like drowning in
                    maple syrup, sticky and

sweet. I've been told that dropping
drink was the hardest thing I've

                    never done.

          I found these things,
these iron pores dripping
iron sweat, remarkably

                    easy to ignore.

I believe it was mother giving birth
to the new age of the Carolingians
when the western waters were musical
in their way a waterfall of puke,
Rescuing milfs from silence---
Singing in the rain as whispering ***
parts on supernova-goddess-choirs of farts,
cinnamon permeating the eucharist---
Mother walking in tired, yes, sits
And love burns in childbirth,
Her hoodlum-daughter real news
Goddess-queen of the underworld,
Real news---mother said let there be light
And she saw the light of the nine muses
Dancing in flowing robes
The sun an eye I stopped to dance---
The fat dove flying through the window,
The western world puking on her daisies
The girl said her mother was a ****,
Oh, god, how she lied!
The twisted bunny eats the green leaves
and leaves the carrots---
The earth damp where u lay, sweaty fembot
U keep calling with no request:
Wake up, little Susie; lay down, Sally---
I believe it was mother giving birth