I found you this rose
it's the color one has to see to win a fight in jail
as far as fighting goes
I don't think I'll ever prevail
fighting tooth and nail
against brutish males
of which you are one
holding my rose like a gun
which was set to stun
and now to ****
you get your fill
removing my will
by sitting me still.

I gave you a red flower
with thorns
it gave you power
and horns
adorned
above your scorn
looking down on me
a coyote howling
amongst the evergreens
that are never seen
and an ember means
the death of trees
so the creatures leave
at the sight of steam.

I'll respect you
I'll treat you right
so I expect you
to leave tonight
while keeping my rose
to keep me feeling low
to keep me on my toes
to keep me on the go
in fact the only thing not worth keeping
is the man who just got done speaking.

There's a dead cat on the road
second one this week
I shouldn't be writing about other people's dead cats
I should be writing about my own
passed away many years ago
still occupying my memory
even as people have come and gone
—mainly gone
I only come once everybody's gone
everybody comes once I'm gone
they move in next door
leaving dead cats for me to worry about
while speeding off
frustrating me with blatant recklessness
we hurt one another and feel remorse—
never changing we continue to do so
the speed limit goes lower
because we keep going faster
painting the road with deer and auto parts
the lines on the road become hard to see
when smoke is the only signal visible
all I can do is pull onto a shoulder
and curl up for a catnap.

I want you to know how I feel
but my words don't reach the extent necessary
to let you know what is real
that I want to be your emissary
but I act so wary
like an actuary
with a knack for staring
judging passing cherries
as cassowaries.

My frustration grinds through a mouthful of teeth
because of the fountain of heat
that lies beneath
my sword in sheath
melting through its protection
bleeding from the rejection
of your outward inflection
thwarting this coward's intentions.

I miss you but I don't even know you
I want to kiss you and hold you
but the issue to that bold move
is that I don't know if it'd go through
like Father Time's sand
passing through my hands
******* I'm an old man
from your cold canned gold jam
I'm sold bland then soul slammed
by Conan
The Barbarian
in my solarium
solitary terrarium
where nary a sum
equals more than one.

Sometimes I think about going back to ******
but always end up realizing I can’t
because that world would break me once more
because I’m too soft
I guess everyone is too soft
especially when they start using
many think they’ll be a bulb of light
illuminating a dim and darkened room
until the deader bulbs take advantage
draining the once bright bulbs
until they’re fragile shells.

Do I capitalize the g in God?
I guess my answer is self evident
I don't think I need to dot my i's
To receive God's love
But he also wants me to mind my p's and q's
So I can know His word
And understand His scripture
But society's an encryptor
Feeding me tryptophan
Until this cryptogram
Leaves me ******
By turning the Bible into a crossword puzzle
My only chance to prosper is muddled

I'm sorry to say
Things didn't go your way
Chalk it up as dues to pay
Just please don't lose your faith
You must wrestle sin
Don't let it in
Or let it win
Or you'll get grim
On a lonely limb

Despite a deluge of hope
You yell lose and nope
You can't use a joke
Singing the blues to cope
24/7
You feel threatened
Before I finish my sentence
So our contact is lessened
Because your empathy deafened
Always puts me in second

You become negative
Ignoring relatives
You have hell to give
In the cell you live
Where it's dark
And barren
Bitterness is stark
And apparent

You expect me to save you
From what Satan gave you
But he's totally enslaved you
You need Jesus to bathe you
Because I see the same you
And will always blame you
Using a shame tool
To change fools

I hate to slice ties
But in your eyes belies
A sinister surprise
That'll bring my demise
That's sitting on ice
Precariously waiting to melt
To release your anger
So before any damage is dealt
I turn into a stranger

You might be on ****
if you run over your own transmission
pushing your car as hard as possible
because Tik Tok by Kesha is playing.

You're definitely on ****
it afterwards you pull into a nearby parking lot
and decide to just shoot **** there
for the next few days.

You're not on **** anymore
when the business owner is fed up with you
and you're falling asleep talking to the police
who only find empty bags and tell you to leave.

The lines become blurred
when you're six months sober
and a psychosis has developed
to the point where you're hiding
behind your couch from the shadow
people with ****** rifles outside.