"audacity" poems
kissing you was like swerving into oncoming traffic
i can never tell if i am more haunted by empty picture frames or the ashes of their contents
you taught me that the saying "pick your battles" meant not answering when love was at the door
sometimes when i drink whiskey i swear i can hear your voice in the creases of my bedsheets & i sleep on the floor
i still catch myself running my hands over things you touched the most, looking for the echoes of your fingertips
i practice things i'll never say to you
i remember the day you told me you didn't like poetry, how "everything's already been said" & how "nothing meaningful can be captured without being cliche" you know, i don't miss you like the sun and moon, i do not miss you like tide bent waves crashing on the shoreline, i miss you like a chernobyl swingset misses children
rumor has it that drowning is a lot like coming home, that drinking bleach can **** the butterflies in your stomach
for your love of cigarettes, i would have been an ashtray
this halloween i want to dress up as the you when you loved yourself and show up on your doorstep
i never understood what you meant when you said i was an instrument, back when you would cup your hands around my chest and breathe through the holes in my heart, i still wonder if the sounds i made remind you of wind chimes
i never paid much attention to abandoned buildings until i became one
in my dreams all the flowers smell like your perfume
i am the only person who has ever wished for the same snowflake to fall twice
if i could go back, and rewrite the definition of audacity, it would be how when we lost the bet of love, you said "we never shook on it"
i love you, if the feeling is not mutual, please pretend this was a poem
the only apology i want from you, is to have you repeat the names of children we will never have in your parents living room until they *****
we are the same person if you find yourself up at 4am dry heaving promises, or if you are kept awake by the laughter of those who've abandoned you
nobody ever told you that goodbyes taste like the back of stamps
sometimes i'm convinced that the only reason we hug, is so you can check my back for exit wounds
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 11:08 PM UTC
Ambled ambitions,
an aching audacity;
aged adventurer.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 7:04 PM UTC
The river winds in from distant lands
With mercyless power it turns stone to sand
Through its mysterious life, the very earth it commands
And Yet the fearful river still runs through our hands.
In torrents of furry where the deepest currents flow
The rivers wild waters surge with woe. For
Onward, forever, its destined to go
A permenant home it won't ever know.
The river runs from each of us
As a refugee of fear,
It knows in a blink it will be somewhere else
Its waves are really its tears.
It runs from the audacity
Of the selfish human mind
As Its massive life capacity,
Of flora and fauna combined,
Are threatened by our antics and helpless to our crime
So the river runs on their behalf, from everyone, in time-
even within its whitecap foam
Water's yearning for a home
So roam does the water- endlessly,
till its long gone out of sight
The essential droplets of the river-
Nomads day and night.
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 11:55 AM UTC
do you ever wonder
about the difference between
looking at something
and the hallucination created
when looking past it?
if you look at your hand
it's all you can see
but if you look past your hand
there are now two of them
sometimes it's hard for me
to remember which is real
it gets me thinking
about how my father
used to wake me up
in the morning by rubbing
his stubble across my face
i spent my 11th birthday
under the assumption
that he might come back
if i drank his aftershave
like maybe if i could turn blue
if i could be his favorite color
on our bathroom floor
he would forget why he left
the paramedics were all sobing
as they pumped memories
out of my stomach
i coughed up the day the post-it note with your new address on it
burned a hole in our refrigerator
coughed up the day
the divorce papers came
and my mother
took a baseball bat to the mailbox
i've been choking on the splinters
for 17 years
it's been 17 years
since the last dinner plate
exploded on our dining room wall
17 years since my mother
started accidentally setting your place at the dinner table
17 years since italian night
at the restaurant on the corner
where the juke box
spat tired music
and like so many other things
it stopped working when you left
i guess it's no coincidence
since the juke box went quiet
that the cds in my car
only skip on "i miss you"
i've been hemorrhaging memories
for so long
and now that i'm looking back
i can no longer tell
the mirage from the truth
sometimes i swear
you showed up to my graduation
and last time
i was at your apartment
i can't remember
if the imprints of my hands
are in clay hanging on your wall
or if they were left in the mud
the day god had the audacity
to let it rain
or maybe it's like the time
i saw someone crying on a bridge
now that i think about it
i can't remember if it was me
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 12:53 AM UTC
If you, could see you,
through my eyes,
You would never doubt
yourself. No, never.
You would never have
the audacity to say
"I can't" because you,
yes you,
are amazing beyond anything
I have ever known.
If you, could see you,
through my eyes,
You would never be the
same. Not ever.
You would be blinded
by the beauty
that radiates from
within you, from outside
of you. The very essence of beauty
that makes up you.
If you, could see you,
through my eyes,
You would never be sad
again. No, never.
You would know why
I love you.
You would see the grace,
in every little thing
you do, say, and think.
You would see the endless
depth for which my love
for you grows. The never ending
abyss of swirling,
crashing waves of love
I have for you.
You would finally understand
the absolute perfection
of you
if you could see you
through my eyes.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 9:31 AM UTC
i hate how we can’t ******* hang out without people looking at their **** phones
{except i check mine too}
i hate how technology has the audacity to imitate physical presence by this ******** FaceTiming
{except i wish i had an iPhone}
i hate how relationships take place on the ******* phone
{except if i had a relation, i would do the same}
i hate how we type how we feel instead of just saying it
{except i find it easier to see it in text than to say it in speech}
i hate how we spend time on the computer instead of taking a ******* walk
{except i spend all day on the computer}
i hate this new ******* technologically advanced generation
{except i'm a part of it}
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 9:35 PM UTC
It wasn’t supposed to be like this
Never had I imagined this
After I first saw you
Sitting in the corner of the coffee shop
Sipping tea with a hint of hazel
Matching the light in your eyes
I used to love that coffee shop
One we went back to many times
At least at first
You would order the same tea
With the same hint of hazel
And I would adore your acute audacity
Ordering tea in a coffee shop
I had friends who told me many things
They hadn’t been afraid to see the truth
Telling me we were moving too fast
Not really understanding where we were
But instead taking the present to define everything
Perhaps I should’ve listened
I had thought you were what they describe as ‘The One’
But your brilliance in my life
Blinded me of many things I should’ve paid heed to
Placing me on the edge of your storm
Instead of reaching the eye of it
As I should’ve
Maybe this is why the movies are fictional
They only exist in our lives until the end credits
Whereas I lived past them
And witnessed the reality
Beyond the list of directors, producers, and actors
Living in a cycle of after-credits
We went to that coffee shop one last time
And I looked
Looked for that same spark which I had latched on to
All those years back
But this time I truly saw you, past the light
This time you ordered coffee
Black, with no hint of hazel
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 3:35 PM UTC
*Isn't it scary
how powerful you are?
Your ability to
smile with
a broken heart,
scarred past,
and a shredded soul.
Yet, you have
the audacity to
look down
and say
you're not
strong enough.*
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 8:14 AM UTC
She seems pretty queer
Yes she does
Something odd
Something peculiar
Is it in her insouciance
Is it in her audacity
Is it in her pirouettes
Spun with such vivacity
Is it in her defiance
Is it in her nonrepentance
Is it in her reveling so free
A form full of glee
Sometimes impetuous
All times ingenuous
Aflame with passion
An immersive intoxication
Cracking down on this mystery
A perplexing dichotomy
Let's remove the misfitting pieces
In sync with commonplace notions
Alas what dismantling of a girl
at peace with her pieces
What uprooting of a girl
at home in her body
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 1:22 AM UTC
they'll paint white walls over your thoughts
because they think simplicity looks better than polka dots.
they will strip you down to nothing
because bare is better than bare minimum.
they say your body is your canvas,
then why are they scribbling
on her canvas?
they’ll doodle words,
perhaps phrases of flatter
like "You're pretty"
teaching her that that's all that matters.
They'll hang up a **** model picture
because her body should look like this, you know?
Richer.
They'll say her body is a temple
“she's eating all that for lunch?”
they'll say her body is a temple
but her body
is the house
she grew up in
and yet you have the audacity to try and burn it down?
Oh
I forgot to mention
the white paint that they used to paint over her?
yeah ... slight misunderstanding
It's permanent.
what could they expect?
it's their fault actually,
it said everything on the label
but they were too busy you see.
Too busy to see what it was really made out of, too busy to read what made it the way it was.
Because one glance is enough, right?
One glance is enough to ask her "what did you eat today?"
And as her stomach grumbled
and her blood ate her alive,
she would answer "oh plenty!"
And you would look happy with her answer because
she is treating her body like a house she doesn't even recognize.
And you would look happy with her answer because
she let her body become your canvas
And you would look happy with her answer because
Your white paint was worth your money after all.
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 8:35 PM UTC
It means you tried to look pretty for another man. You put on your eyeliner and mascara to attract him, look good for him. You put on a skin tight dress for him. You looked at him in the eyes and let him touch your hands or your back. You sat in the front seat with him and you let him give you flowers. You tried to want him, to love the color of his eyes or to like the shape of his body. You looked at him with lustful eyes without love. For a moment, you even tried to picture him as your husband or to have his child or what his child would look like if it were yours too. You might even have thought of his lips on yours or his body on top. You spoke to him with all the wrong intentions, not for work, not because he lives at your dorm or because you know him a bit, not even because he's just a random friend, but because of all the wrong intentions.
And all this was within 10 days of your drama and now you still have the audacity to tell me all about your loyalty and about how you've been nothing but loyal but if that, you think is loyalty then you don't know half the meaning of that word because loyalty doesn't need to taste other men/women and it sure wouldn't have put him in my shoes. Loyalty wouldn't try to lust over other men like a **** or dress up in **** tight jeans for them. Loyalty wouldn't need a free trial.
And lets flip roles here and say I tried to do what you did and lets say I took a pretty girl with straight hair out for a drive in my car and lets say I used my best perfume to smell nice for her and to want her to want to kiss me and lets say she's been trained to cook the best food and look the best for a husband and she's smart too and lets say that for a moment I try to want myself to want to be her husband and lets say she's more into me than I'll ever be into her and all she wants is to be sitting on my lap but she won't say it and I know her intentions but I take her out anyway and I wear my best button down and I say no to her proposal of getting me into her bed late at night but that doesn't mean I didn't try to want to say yes.
Would you call me "loyal" then if it took me lesser than 2 weeks to **** up a 3 year relationship which was made of so much more than 2 bodies, which was made of two hearts and souls. 10 days isn't enough for "loyalty" to want to move on or to try to. Loyalty is a pledge witnessed by god. Loyalty holds itself up in distance or in despair or in sickness or in misunderstandings and it surely holds itself up much longer than 10 ******* days.
So tell me whatever, tell me you aren't sorry or that you don't want him and you want me or don't want me or tell me about why we will never happen or why we will, tell me of his seven figure salary (and I won't give a **** tell me his pros and all my cons, tell me how I was never enough or how I was too much, tell me whatever but don't you dare act loyal to make yourself feel better about your selfish **** self by calling it self-love and don't you dare tell me about stories of your loyalty with me because it only takes one to **** it all up and don't you dare disgrace my loyalty to you by ever calling yourself loyal after going out on a date with him.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 10:03 AM UTC
Hid my tears with makeup
Curled my hair despite the burns
Pierced through my desperation for
earrings
Some may call me an attention
*****
Or a girl who finally embraced
her feminine side
But I don't care
Your opinion is the only one that
matters
But you had the audacity not to notice
Your Porcelain Doll
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 5:26 PM UTC
Corpses proliferate in soaring violence; heirloom of franchise and eminence— perish in erosion.
Timid denizens of derision, cynicism in roaring silence — optimism’s paling vapor—commodity of Indecision, our halcyon days forgotten.
Chosen token of audacity; the onyx maladroit feigns, prevaricating beneath the Sacred canopy.
Etudes of apathy; attrition unlamented; streams of guile— quixotic squall conversely merge — veiled conceit, eloquent arrow of equivocation.
The policy of attenuation.
Treason’s vine obscured beneath the blind surf of consent.
© 2014 & 2016 W. S. Warner
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
Rust downing like bayed menstrual blood--
booming steel walls...a rattling sanitation truck.
Housewarming...'the rough beast' in
fetal orbit...nay-toothed in squalor.
Whose gummy roar shall presage the
audacity of all places, that call forth
houses!!!
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 12:10 AM UTC
And we’ve all been there, me and my lovers,
we’ve all see our fair share of troubles.
cause Romance is Chance in the form of a Dance
and I’m sorry to say I still move like I did fifteen years ago.
Macarena with me and I’ll sweep you off your feet,
maybe someday I’ll learn to waltz and blow you away.
Until it all comes crashing down.
Because inevitably it all comes crashing down
even the Flintstones died millennia ago.
My Anna Marie, I’m sorry you left,
Europe ringed and you answered,
I guess we couldn’t afford long distance
(is that even still a thing?)
and I couldn’t wait for you,
I was too young and too ready to love again.
Dear Jenna,
Darling,
as much fun as you are
we move at different speeds,
and mine’s stuck in the slow lane.
I liked *** on the second date,
but I wasn’t ready for the **** three weeks in.
God knows I’d never try and change you
even he doesn’t have the ***** to try.
And God bless you Tiffany,
cause it ***** to die,
but it ***** even more
stuck here saying goodbye.
Bachelor Status reaffirmed:
**** sites filled to capacity
with self-made men of audacity
come to satisfy their proclivities
“Dear phantom girlfriends,
you’re here to gratify
Please entertain us in our fantasies
and our impossibly similar tendencies.
Also, it wouldn’t hurt if it’s all free.”
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 12:40 AM UTC
what cheek, the audacity to sheer his name from his faceless appearance, well, I know something of names, and mysteriously common and vague,
said as often as ****
does not satisfy this certified member
of the hoi polloi of humens
grace,
with a small g,
not to be confused with those courtiers in human courts
who so address their temporal superiors,
who more often than not,
chop off with their head,
just god
downy not longer
for being insufficiently lying
in their obsequiousness
grace is a virtue par excellence,
multi~facetedly faced,
reflecting well and goodness
on both the speaker and the hearing,
if grace you know not the meaning of,
then research it and let it
reflect back upon your countenance
replace god with grace,
and forgive me this too obvious rhyme,
it will only be better days
for the human race
><><
my name?
hah!
sinner man
Sep 22, 2025
Sep 22, 2025 at 1:38 PM UTC
My body is the training ground for
All of the reject demons
My inner demons failed to qualify as the right sort of fight
To match with any worthwhile struggles so
My inner demons are over dramatic children
They do not wage wars
They throw tantrums
They stand inside my temples and pound the walls
When they do not get what they want
And shriek ringing into my ears until they turn blue
Then fall asleep when they get tired
Forgetting that they were supposed to be upset
My inner demons are pretentious
They call themselves demons
When they are more like imps
They tickle at anxiety with the nerve to call it an attack
And separate velcro and seams with the audacity to say that
They broke something
Then press on my heart
Daring to call it an ache
My inner demons are clumsy
They walk with their toes curling around my eyelashes
And slip and spill their handfuls of tears
At inopportune moments
As I tremble due to the ones
That have tripped and tangled themselves
In my heartstrings and vocal cords
Causing me to grasp my rib cage in desperate attempts to reach them
And tear apart the inconveniences
My inner demons are shy
They sway in my veins to the rhythmic pulse
With clawed hands outstretched to the blue walled sky
Cautious to never leave a scratch through my skin
They dance on nerve endings and muscle tissue
With footwork just gentle enough to not summon bruises
And hold themselves still against my capillaries
As if their presence might distract my blood from
Its daily circulation
My inner demons are hoarders
They over-stuff the filing cabinets in my brain
With reports and analysis of too many situations
And pick up old emotions and hide them in the recesses
Of each ventricle and aorta
Creating pseudo-space for newer, stranger, replicas
Then pack extra breaths into my lungs
Storing "just in case" inhalations and overused sighs
They insulate their homes with extra calories and extra clothes
Hiding until they can forget themselves
My inner demons are moody
They like to stitch up new wounds with the thorns of roses
And pry open old ones with feathers
They tie my tongue with pages of foreign textbooks
They tie my tongue in gauze and cotton
They tie my tongue with other tongues
And pins and needles and teeth and drawstrings
They are self depreciating and they know that they
Are not worthy of their title
My inner demons are pathetic
I suppose they're right where they belong
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 12:53 AM UTC
My New Year’s Eve
was spent
collecting fragmented recollections
to confirm
that my dignity
had truly died.
Soberly,
I perused
the bars and clubs,
and walked aimlessly
up and down crowded streets,
feeling like my life
had somehow
been shifted
into slow motion,
while the rest of the world,
engaging in joyous celebration
and ffestivities,
was knocked out of rhythm
from my existence.
How in the world
could the clock strike midnight?
How could people embrace, and kiss
at the dropping of the ball?
How could they laugh and smiile,
and wish each other a “Happy New Year!”?
More importantly,
how could those god **** traffic lights
have the audacity
to continue changing
from red to ggreen to yellow,
then back to red again.
My dignity had just died.
My dignity had just died.
My dignity was dead.
My dignity was gone.
In the days and weeks
that followed the death of my dignity,
I noticed
that life faded
from colloquial to iconic,
like something mystical,
or an intangible object
of deep longing.
And recurrent images
of those *******
obnoxious traffic lights
insensitively
switching colors
replay in my mind
to remind me
over and over
in the greens (go),
the reds (stop),
and the yellows (be careful),
that my dignity
had died.
Memories
of the ddays
before my dignity had died
run through my mind
like old home movies
with centuries
of black and white film
stuck on repeat,
and slowly fraying,
around the edges,
because of the harsh demands of time.
It is life’s
harsh and cruel irony
that these images,
once my greatest joy,
have now become
inflicters
of the greatest pain
that I
have ever felt.
Like a sound wave
of pain,
so powerful,
that it has silenced
any other pain
that my heart
has ever heard.
So now I know,
it is true
life is a bitch.
The fading
of my dignity
has made me
overly aware
of the earth
turning on its axis.
As spring approached,
for the very first time,
I noticed
the way the flowers
seem reluctant
to bloom,
as if uncertain
of their
welcome invitation.
Such a cruel reality,
that the flowers
would choose
to bloom,
and nature
would choose
to carry on,
slipping
further and further
away from the day
that my dignity died.
And still,
to this day,
those ****
traffic lights
keep switching colors
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 8:32 AM UTC
.*England... no wolves... oh well... the next best "spirit animal"..? Bacardi! no wait... Whyte & Mackawy?! no... **** what could it be... and believe me, Maine **** cats share a disposition of curiosity with this feral creature... this Robin Hood... what animal is it? hmm...*
it was supposed to your generic,
bog-standard Saturday afternoon,
i was given the pleasure of
cooking dinner...
Xacuti chicken curry with
star anise & nutmeg
from the Goa region
of India and
a curry from Sri Lanka...
absolutely beauties...
evidently...
all that heating of the spices
on a pan and then blending
them in a coffee mill...
seriously spread like a forest fire...
not too long... well,
by the time i finished
all the prep for the second curry,
and was already letting it
simmer...
to my honest disbelief...
and this was mid afternoon,
about half six -
bright as ******* daylight...
who's this?
hello?
you like the smell i see?
god...
what a pristine healthy example
of the feral -
and the most beautiful eyes...
had to take a picture...
so i asked again?
does it really smell that good that
it has given you the kind
of cheek and audacity to risk
climbing out from your
safety prior to nightfall?
**** i heard before that
i am a good cook...
but you, dear fox -
have paid the biggest compliment,
ever.
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 6:01 PM UTC
I kept my answers small and kept them near;
Big questions bruised my mind but still I let
Small answers be a bullwark to my fear.
The huge abstractions I kept from the light;
Small things I handled and caressed and loved.
I let the stars assume the whole of night.
But the big answers clamoured to be moved Into my life. Their great audacity
Shouted to be acknowledged and believed.
Even when all small answers build up to
Protection of my spirit, still I hear
Big answers striving for their overthrow.
And all the great conclusions coming near.
5.1k
Daddy is almost 60 years old now.
His fragile arms wrap around me like a porcelain doll as he takes his last drag of his cigarette. He tells me it won’t **** him.
Two weeks ago, my dad found my hand-me-down blades. I told him he did not need to worry because my addiction of the blades painting my canvas has been replaced to the deadliest addiction; loving a boy.
Everyone has an addiction.
Addiction is passed down from generation to generation.
That’s probably why my brother has the addiction of letting acid flow through his lips.
Mommy has the addiction of having a man in different cloths sleep next to her at night,
And ***** has the addiction of letting her boyfriend leave black and blue “love marks” all over her body, and yet she still has the audacity to say that she loves him.
I met a boy today that told me his addiction was needle, I asked him how.
He told me that it comes as natural as you need to drink water and his arms were marked up with pinpoint bumps like hills but despite the green they were purple and blue leading up to his shoulders, then I saw one on his neck. But this one seemed different, it seemed like a rope was strangling him and up above was a branch of hope flowing down the drain, because his opportunities were caged in a non-existent box.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 7:51 PM UTC
I keep my answers small and keep them near;
Big questions bruised my mind but still I let
Small answers be a bulwark to my fear.
The huge abstractions I keep from the light;
Small things I handled and caressed and loved.
I let the stars assume the whole of night.
But the big answers clamoured to be moved
Into my life. Their great audacity
Shouted to be acknowledged and believed.
Even when all small answers build up to
Protection of my spirit, I still hear
Big answers striving for their overthrow
And all the great conclusions coming near.
4.9k
you can tell by the way she swings her hips
and pulls your hair
and licks her lips
and whispers in your ear
that she's easy.
you'll know her by the short skirt
and the tight top
and the high heels,
by the butterfly tattoo on her lower back
and the drink in her hand.
if she carries condoms
or takes birth control,
if she can't say no,
if she takes no convincing,
you'll know.
she's the girl at the party who drinks the most
and laughs the loudest.
she's the one you discarded the first night you met her,
when she gave you
the only part of herself that you deemed worthwhile.
you'll figure her out
from the tar trails of mascara,
the untouched meal,
the word "worthless" carved into her thigh like a brand,
marking her flesh as property
to which you are entitled.
pay close attention to her need for validation.
a **** will have the audacity to seek your approval
just because she's been told all her life
that she is nothing without your love.
she will measure her worth
in units of attractiveness
and desirability
because that is the only system she's ever been taught.
you'll know she's a **** when they find the defendant
not guilty,
and he arrives at the ten-year reunion in a limo.
you'll know she's a **** when she doesn't arrive
at all.
it's easy to spot a ****
in a society that teaches her that her lips are for kisses
and not battle cries,
that her hands are meant to be cradled in yours
and not ****** into the sky,
that her body is your wonderland
and not her home.
it's hard to miss a **** in a culture that paints women as ****** objects
while condemning any expression of female sexuality,
that glorifies the "good girl" who becomes whole
when the right man comes along
and stakes his claim.
the women you ****** in the lifetime before you met your wife
weren't marriage material;
you need a girl who's saved herself for you because
a girl who lets you **** her
crosses the threshold from ****** to ****
in a bizarre coming of age ritual in which your **** is *so ******* important*
that its temporary entrance to her body
renders her worthless.
you can tell she's a ****
because for her, there is no right answer.
you can find your **** at rallies
and in body-baring photographs,
alive in the anxious triumph
of finding something in herself that she can love,
of digging through a lifetime of rubble
and reclaiming small shards of forgiveness from the dirt.
her self-identified status
rips away your long-established privilege
of dictating who she can be
and defining her worth;
your resent her new autonomy.
you can march beside her,
or you can step aside.
she has stolen back her power.
she was made for revolution.
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 6:09 AM UTC
This poem is green
Would you buy this poem?
This poem is do-it-yourself
backyard garden green.
This poem is save the world
give peas a chance green;
this poem is azure sky
squeezing the golden sun
all over the world green.
Could you buy this poem?
This poem is apples and oranges
farmer’s artist market green.
This poem has
leaves as pillows
and blankets as grass;
this poem is a lil’ patch of green
earth purchase me plot;
this poem is
100%
recyclable
disposable,
sustainable
(after all it has gotten this far)
You should buy this poem.
This poem is green,
its’ tyro-technics
shooting out of asphalt cracks.
This poem is a snot-nosed brat
full of SASS
(short attention span sentences)
This poem is the hope of audacity.
This poem is fumbling with bra straps
and tongue-tied techniques,
this poem isn’t old enough
to know any better, it’s wet
behind the ears green
petting zoo pellets green
willing to SCREAM green
but not part of
a gang green
this poem is all alone
with its words
Buy this poem?
This poem is green
Its envious of
solar panel studios with eyes on the price
of a venti economy
This poem is the green-eyed monster
of product placement pick-o-the profit
This poem WANTS to make
consumer obedience the easy culprit.
But really…
This poem just wishes it could sing
Won’t you buy this poem?
This poem is green.
This poem has no half-life,
shelf life or
night life.
This poem exists solely in this moment
of your imagination.
This poem has milk carton desperation.
This poem is begging for change.
This poem was stolen from all of you.
This poem is not for sale.
Buy This Poem!
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 11:09 PM UTC