All of the nooses in the world could not erase what's been had nor the stars lighting my eyes diminish the presents glare.  

And the pit of this cigarette couldn't give a ****.

(C) Tiffanie Noel Doro

I'm studying real poets.

Shelley, Sandburg,
Frost, and Wordsworth.
Coleridge, Blake,
and William Butler Yeats.

Do you know why they're
considered real poets?

Because they made art,
not hashtag trends.
Wrote from Experience
with black quill pens.
Sure, they got high,
but wrote on instinct.
And The Road Not Taken doesn't
mean what you think.
They wrote about about life
and the world that they heard,
not ******* in the margins
of Microsoft Word.

I have never written a single poem
that my lovers could understand.

In truth, all my romantic verse is simple,
self-congratulatory applause

for not falling victim
to the virus of sentiment.


I am a gifted liar.

When you come to the realization that there is not a single **** person that you know which you can turn to and express the depths of your emotions with the decisions become incredibly clear.