#self-deprecation
Her hair was black
Her **** where saggy
she was five foot five
just the right size
she tried her best
to make me explode
I forgive her though
use the money well
life can be cruel..
help your kids in china
go to school
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 8:37 PM UTC
dependent, dependent, dependent.
i hate to be dependent.
it's something that shows weakness.
it shows i can't defeat this.
sorry, sorry, sorry.
you tell me not to be sorry.
even though i try my best.
i never succeed, so i cannot rest.
stupid, stupid, stupid.
i feel like i am stupid.
obviously i'm the least of all.
no one cares when i take a fall.
weakling, weakling, weakling.
i am truly just a weakling.
melting from your sweetest words.
hoping my promises have been heard.
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 9:04 PM UTC
The closet in the dim isolated room
Stores away so many of my bones
That store too many secrets for the
Weak hearted,
So each week I’m parted from demons
That are a part of too much of me.
But I can never see the difference, my two sides won’t show it.
It does so little to comfort me; what have I become?
Am I the walking dead and a watcher of the funeral of my smiles,
Whose continuous lives and illness discomfort and confuse all?
Am I fast asleep when dreams of a peaceful life take over?
Because I awake to find that I’m too stripped back and empty to find anything to give,
A signal I care, or knowing something has shifted
A tectonic plate in my brain,
Erupting the series of footsteps to the door
Of the insane, knocking furiously enough to break it.
The desperate pull of the veil over my mind
Disguises it as curtains for a show, a grand act.
I am the star of the leading role, too centred, too vain,
Perfect to match the unmatched mess I feel every day.
The genius illusion is that am I really acting?
Even I do not know.
The stage is my war zone; no man’s land,
Because I am obviously not human,
And I cannot let anyone else in.
It's bad comedy of a pathetic attempt at drama
For anyone willing to tolerate my oh so called woes.
I choke on the mixture of laughter and tears
I collect in a cracking overflowing jar and drink,
Getting intoxicated on my pity, and hazy on the self-mocking,
Gurgling manipulations of sharing the side dish
But also shoving away any takers.
I am greedy - I want it all to myself.
And to myself it shall remain.
I buy all the tickets and keep them to remind myself
How my dim isolated room shrinks with each entry,
How I refuse to give out any more keys.
Maybe the walking dead is what I am;
Surely life is not this lightless when it is lived.
At least I hope not.
May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 11:09 AM UTC
oh honey she’s too busy thinking of creative ways of killing herself to pay you any attention,
lying at night with her limbs hanging off the sides of her bed beckoning the monsters underneath to pull her under.
maybe then will she have company so that the demons in her head can take the day off,
so she can breathe without the constant weight weighing heavy in her mind.
the only patterns in her grayscale world are self-made, nah, more like self-inflicted;
there’s the cigarette burns that dot her threadbare skirt and the
the only smile she has is the ones on her wrists, but somehow i think the jagged red lines weren’t made with lipstick, no not this time.
there’s grace in her stillness; she's coiled like a python about to strike.
bite before you’re bitten, yeah.
an arrow pulled back in the embrace of a bow, she hardly quivers.
aim and point,
determination to reach her target is the only constant she can count on
slicing through the air with a trained precision,
all teeth and fangs and broken glass.
no amount of touch can erase those who tracked dirt in her house before you,
you can’t make her forget the kisses trailed down her thighs before you,
not when those lips were dripping acid and winters passed, even now she still burns.
the corroding is invisible to everyone but her.
it will take more than snow to erase all that you’ve known
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 9:41 PM UTC
why is it that
we can recite the whole periodic table,
but when asked to write down
a list of what we like about ourselves,
the paper remains blank?
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 4:13 AM UTC
coming to the conclusion
you're no fun to be around
is somewhat a relief
nobody has to tell you
so admitting it to yourself is nice
no need for tears
or that awkward agreement
you just know that you're right
when their slight smile wanes
and the goodbyes are much shorter
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 6:44 PM UTC
A fatal flaw
of selflessness
that is humbling
on paper
but self-destructive.
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 4:52 AM UTC
I want to do things to you
I'm not used to saying in public.
Not because I'm ashamed,
But because I don't wanna scare
any strangers.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 1:31 PM UTC
I'd pull a pratfall just to keep that smile wide and real
I'd pull my somersaults and dance a brilliant fever frenzy
I'd grab those carol bells and shake them in a brilliant peal
And no not anything you'd ever do could possibly offend me
I'll tell you stories, curl your toes with all delight or fright
I'll run through tall grass, hauling string behind to raise your kite
I'm in your thrall, I'll beg and crawl, and caterwaul
If I should think I've come ever so near to dealing you a sleight
I'll pull a pratfall
Because I'd rather be loved as a fool
Than not be loved at all.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
Was Annabelle just a woman in Poe’s dream?
Was there really an angel on Janet Frame’s wooden table?
Did Emily Dickinson really wear white for the rest of her life?
Was Dante just a bitter ***** to tell people about a red man with horn’s on his head
Didn’t think it was Halloween too soon on the corner of his calendar
I resembled all the traits these writer’s made of their spoken lives just like Bukowski
If he did live in many rooms and lost his brain cells in bottles
Maybe in the afterlife Burroughs will give me pointers on drugs along with Thompson. Meeting Rimbaud ask him if he ever was in the closet. Took an eyeful of literature before high school, made friends with boozers, losers and psychopaths. Don’t quote me because I cherish them so much I know I’ll try to make it like them soon, dead yet my heroes they remain alive
WRITE ME OFF WRITE ME OFFF Write me down there’s no pen and papers around scrawl on the wall have a purpose to write them all
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 9:43 AM UTC
This poem is crap.
It is too short,
and it doesn't even rhyme.
It doesn't even say anything
or mean anything,
and it curses in the first line.
The author must really **** 'cause
this poem is crap.
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 7:12 PM UTC