"burner" poems
you are
annoying and unfaithful
greedy and habitual
poor baby
what must you lust after now
and sob rivers with no reasons
you lack directions
and standards
and thrive on attention
of unattractive actions
you are eleven
going on ten
and have yet to blossom
we give up on you
since i occupy the back burner
behind rats and redheads
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 6:40 PM UTC
The day the ships came my ancestors we not of the aware of the forced melting *** that would come into existence
The combination of french and spanish confused the delta slaves
Little did they know that neither language would stick on their burnt excuses of tongues
The days the ships came New Orleans became the beacon of mulatos
And although the conquistadors could **** and beat their slave wives
Their spanish advances were not reciprocated due to lack of of heat to complete the melting
The languages that conquered the delta were combined into something that no outsider would want to encounter
That’s why the Americans came and took it like they did the rest of the country
They mistake the magic for voodoo then rebranded it for themselves
Centuries later the delta is still a melting ***
But it’s one my grandmother’s tongue was forced to forget
Her languages were lost next to her mulatto slave ancestors, left to spoil
So now when people ask
“If you’re hispanic why can’t you speak spanish?”
I can barely find the words in english to explain the years of torture my tongue has endured
When spanish speaking couples walk into my work
My tongue is eager to spill words it wishes it had the ability to create
My blood begins to hate itself over the fact that a third of itself is unrecognizable
My tongue is still waiting for the new boats to arrive and reconcer it
All it knows is to be conquered
No self defense here
When all you know is to be conquered
It becomes a challenge to think for oneself
My tongue can’t decide if english, spanish or french is better
My creole mind is yelling thousands foreign curse words not knowing which one is a true sin
Maybe the sin here is letting the burner stay on too long
The day the ships came
My slave ancestors looked at their spanish lovers and said
“My love, what shall we do once the french arrive?”
With their eyes looking into the horizon the conquistadors replied
“Es no problema para mi, pero tu, tu es la propiedad de estos”
Which according to simple history books means
“Good luck”
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 10:16 PM UTC
I rush for love against time
And bleed blood by design
My heart floods for my crimes
When my mud attracts flies
I felt a rush
Through the brush
Of your skin so lush
I turned to mush
My heart began to gush
When I felt your rush
It became too much
And I exploded prematurely
Though it's normal you assured me
Could it be that you had cured me?
We rushed through our adrenaline courtship
While I rushed through your adorable hips
I was ****** in by your surge
Until your love was purged
You grew bored of my rush hour
So you exerted your push power
And I became a fastidious learner
That you were an insidious burner
After I became the sole recipient
Of your attitude that's flippant
The pain is a rush
This pain when you flush
Disdain when you crush
Me to pieces
Between your creases
When you keep talking feces
It's something that never eases
When your rush turns to breezes
You're a rush in my heart
Like the rush when I ****
It's a relief that you're gone
But something seriously stinks
It's a relief you were wrong
Yet I continue to sink
Nov 1, 2017
Nov 1, 2017 at 4:36 PM UTC
Too many times
I've been pushed aside
On the back burner
My whole **** life
But I wanna be the fire
That lights your soul
I want a raging, blazing
Inferno
Sparking flames
Making changes
In the chemistry
A little oxygen
So I can breathe
A lot of hydrogen
So you can believe
We're floating on air
Particles you can't see
Like love
It's a mystery
A theory
Of who's meant to be
And who's left suffering
That's destiny
I'm creating
Breaking
Changing the flames
Into ashes
And graves
With no names
Just broken hearts
On tombstones
And no chance
To restart
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 7:03 PM UTC
the feeling of unwanted fingertips tends to wash over my skin in the same manner that the cold washed over yours
but heat transfers, or lack-there-of.
it was in this way that i became sick,
or maybe the smoke i've filled my lungs with had finally done me in.
i drank cough syrup either way.
i guess i was unaware at the time, but the smell of cherries was what did me in.
cherries, and i felt your hands once again
cherries, and my breathing nearly stopped all at once
cherries, and my hands began to tremble so violently that i dropped the bottle.
cherries, as i leaned over the toilet throwing up sticky sweet memories
cherries, as i drew further and further into myself and, subsequently, closer into your arms
cherries, as my eyes dried from the excessive tears and i could no longer manage any noise.
cherries, as your cold transferred into me and your hands clenched around my wrists
cherries, as the entire weight of your body was laid on top of mine
cherries, and i couldn't move, i couldn't scream, i couldn't see
cherries, as your voice echoed in my mind, preventing me any relief from this nightmare,
cherries.
no, not even the simplest of coughs could find relief under such strain.
because my cough syrup smelled like your red slushee vape juice,
i froze. and i couldn't pick myself up again
i couldn't front the storm, i couldn't slip you into my pocket
i couldn't put you on the back burner.
i couldn't erase you from my mind no matter how many times i tried i couldn't wipe you off of my skin no matter how hard i scrubbed
i couldn't close my eyes without hearing your voice telling me to stay still i cant stop smelling your ******* red slushee vape juice because the scent accompanies every panic attack and every breakdown.
and i sure as hell couldn't stop the blood from flowing once it had started.
the stress that made it hard to breathe had gotten to you, inside of me
and there was so much blood.
the doctor said it was normal for it to be about the same consistency as cherry cough syrup.
i can't drink it anymore.
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 6:16 PM UTC
10 Things I Wish I Could've Told You...
but never did.
1: I used to fantasize about us listening to that song that always reminded me of you and we'd be laughing and singing and we wouldn't have a care in world except where we were gonna buy our french fries. I'd feel as free as the snowflakes that never fell while we coast down the boulevard.
2: I snuck out of class one time to text you. I thought I was super cool for doing something bad... but then I had to do the entire science experiment with my phone in my jacket sleeve. I came pretty close to lighting it on fire with a bunsen burner, actually.
3: I remember how you could make anything hilarious. Whether it was laughing about overrated jokes from the internet or ironic things we probably shouldn't even be laughing about, you'd turn the situation upside down because that's the way you liked to see the world. You taught me that just looking from another perspective could make the ocean and sky switch places.
4: I lost sleep of worrying about you - I would awake in a cold sweat worried that my biggest nightmare would come true.
5: I would always push accusations of this happening to the back of my mind, but little did I know that when I thought I was protecting you I was really protecting myself.
6: I miss your laugh
7: I miss your smile
8: I miss the way you cared about everyone. Your heart was so big that all the 7 billion people on this earth could have a piece of it, a chance to taste the love and sweetness that resided in there, and when all the sugar saturated in the bottom you always knew how to shake it back up again, but man did they take every last piece. They took it all so that you were left with an emptiness that you had to fill with something else. And you filled it up, but it wasn't with love.
9: I can't live in a world without you
10: You were the first and only person I turned to for a very long time, and you were the only person who I could really trust. You gave me a piece of your heart too, except that I cherished mine. And to this day, I wear your heart on my sleeve.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 8:21 PM UTC
I've got a Chopper,
You can have ****** *********** with it if you like
It's got a trug, a Jew's harp that rattles the windows
And creatures to make it mosey around crack
I'd stretch jeans cheesecake abutting you if I could, but I used plastic toast
You're the kind of ***** that thrusts into *** my bodiliness
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags
I've got a disguise it's a torso of a Irish bull
There's a slit high up the skirt Miss World's bra-burner and gross
I've grappled page—3 girl for bouts
If you think Miss Universe could spasm creamy then I guess Mr Universe should
You're the kind of ***** that slides in with my wads
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags
I **** a chimpanzee and he hasn't got a stage—door Johnny
I don't copulate why I cock—a—doodle—doo him Gerald
He's inseminating à la carte geriatric but he's a voluptuous chimpanzee
You're the kind of ***** that stuffs *** my gallons
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags
I've got a Welshwoman of pornographic Casanovas
Here a Don Juan, there a Lothario, prognosticators of obscene persons of opposite *** sharing living quarters
Beg a bonk if you be on heat, they're on the back of the *****
You're the kind of ***** that spasms indoors using my lump
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags
I **** custom—built dead men of doo-wop passages
Incognito Muses, faceless ching, most of them are Barbie
Let's **** into the odd kitchenette and **** landlady creature
Mar 30, 2010
Mar 30, 2010 at 3:46 PM UTC
Somehow it wasn’t right to cry
for someone who
no one knew—for years
though everyone knew about Lil
She was the crazy burden
of an orphaned family
whose memories rearrange the winter shadows
“Are we dressed right?
Are our faces adequately sad?”
They loved the skinny, happy kid
Loved—the ones who loved her
knew her from “The Old Neighborhood”
Two sisters approach the body
echoed in black and navy
holding each other’s hand
They look down at her—
They look her over
They overlook—“The Old Neighborhood”
of the Lillian they had hoped for—
took care of as a child....
And in the din of last respects
a comment from an older gentleman—
“The Goldrick girls were all such lookers”
So I was her niece
and not from “The Old Neighborhood”
I have memories of my own....
I was rich when Lil brought play money
from Misquamicut
She brought whelks and slipper shells too
My ear cupped close
I first heard the sea
Not as beautiful as I expected
nor as beautiful as I would know
She gave them with love—without telling
where and when that I would go....
Her hands were always cool and sweaty
Always trembling
Always a cigarette
and an argument in the background
From the height of three
and hugging knees
I see her face against the ceiling’s
white—with panic
Her eyes are never with me
I know someone is with her
“The Goldrick girls were all such lookers....”
Beleaguered beauty
Frail, with stiff grace
she glances sideways
Checking for my safety?
“Our names too close! Confused too often!”
I was to know her horror— as I know her sea
...Her laughter, too late for the conversation
a smoky hysteria
that will not share with her eyes
She stumbles backward through her childhood
as if she has mislaid something
She wants to go roller skating
with her sister, eight months pregnant
besieged by diapers
with stew on the back burner
...And Lil wants to go back...
to a time at the Rialto
to the organ’s boogie
to the edge—before
The Depression declared WAR—
on someone who
no one knew
for years!
And is it okay yet?
...to let her sea out of me!
It burns so!
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 9:49 PM UTC
These are the days
when my heart can’t speak
and my days pass by in a fog.
At night I look to the sky for her flame
and she shows me, up through the pines,
she’s the burning harvest moon tonight.
Do you see how she shines like the sun?
She shines in the night just for me.
She leads me to the edge and
whispers like a lover in the dark,
she wants me to burn just for her.
My harvest moon she seems so close
I reach up to touch her but she’s
too far away, she’s so far away but
Oh, how she burns so bright!
Naivety’s gotten the better of me
she’s not the burner she’s the “burnee”
and if we met we’d burn white hot
we’d melt like a ******* supernova
but then we’d die
My beautiful white harvest moon
and I, we know what to do to get by
We know what needs to be done
Shall we close the buckle in the door?
Shall we swallow the white gold and pearls?
No, not likely, instead
run to her at midnight
in the bright white light,
climb upon the rail between
ocher beams on Golden Gate
and look up.
She seems so close.
Look up!
I reach for her slowly
Look up!
I reach for her softly
Look up!
slowly
softly
I step to the edge and fly home.
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 6:56 PM UTC
In high-school chemistry classrooms across the
country, you are forced to memorize all of the different
lab equipment.
They never tell you to memorize the constellation
of freckles spattered across the bridge of your
lab partner's nose, but you do it
anyways.
You learn about Marie Curie and radioactive decay, but you
find you are more interested in the way his smile starts small
and grows to light a fire in your cheeks.
You blame it on the Bunsen burner.
You study polyatomic ions and how they act as a single unit, and it
reminds you of how he winks at you right before quizzes
and you find you can't focus on anything at all.
You blame it on the lack of breakfast.
You test over periodic trends and ionization energy, but all
you can think of at night is the way he taps his fingers
and maybe it's why you can't sleep at night.
You blame it on a restless mind.
In high-school chemistry classrooms across the
country, you are forced to be careful when handling
Erlenmeyer flasks.
They never tell other students to be careful when handling
your heart.
They never tell you how much easier it is to clean up the mess
from a shattered beaker than it is to clean up the mess
from your shattered heart.
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 4:06 PM UTC
~ one more for patty m. ~
slept late after dancing with my devils, from,
from the wee, until a pealing pearl from the Earl of Dawn,
recovering from an intrusion~invasion~brain~regurgitation,
and it’s nearly 9am, sipping my first cuppa Hawaiian,
& woke to a repost of a ten year old wondering plea(1)
makes me think “This old thing,” poem, like a fav
frock/suit that still drapes perfectly, and yet draws the
***** admiration and drippy drawling yummy compliments,
gracefully, gratefully demurred with them three words,
& it’s 8:39am, Bruce pitching in with “Born in the USA”
recipe for a new thank u Gawd poem to make room for
a fast~break diet for an old man with a rebuilt ticker, this
very emission~transmission of a verbal politesse writ going
some where, cooked on a medium slow burner fueling dressed up seeds of heartfelt appreciation made of ancient oat grasses
birthing a poem~child of thanks to the Lawd for one more day,
opportunity, the five sense’s delivery gratitude and gratifications, and the desire to intertwine the sights, music, a crisp blue November Sky, the need to bleed brew these words into a fulfilling,
second moment mug, for the pearls and Earls
of poetic humans
10:01am
Thu Nov 2 2023
Nov 2, 2023
Nov 2, 2023 at 10:16 AM UTC
I woke one day to find my blood all drained into a corner
Of my room, it swathed and swooped like pasta on the burner
Under water, boiling soft, and so content to listen
As to what and where my life has gone, and why I'm missing
Life, and long red roads of ocean currents to old Goa
The world is mad! And me it's had!
At 18 is when I told yah
And I know you didn't want
to disagree.
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 11:18 PM UTC
I was a hair late.
Those mere hours were enough for her to put me on the back burner,
And move someone else to the front.
I was left wanting, waiting, and waning.
Yes, we will exchange pleasantries,
And even embrace on occasion.
But the embraces will be nothing more than reminders of how platonic I am,
Or how pathetic I've become.
The wayside by which I stand cannot be overcome by merely remaining hopeful.
Yet, the time for action has passed.
Though I still pine like the ghost of Neruda.
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 9:46 PM UTC
Never again will I let myself be someone's back up plan.
I was a back burner, in the shadows, half forgotten back up plan. The last thing to be thought about, and the person to be considered least. I was a placeholder to keep the loneliness and isolation at bay.
All I wanted in life was to be made to feel wanted. To finally be able to claw my way up the priority list. Maybe that's what it was.
I was not a priority.
I was nice to have around. Convenient.
I mean, distance, seperation, empty promises... I took all of it. But not only did I take it, I returned it with love, patience, loyalty. I gave time, money, energy.
Everything I had.
Everything that made me who I was as a person.
In fact, I gave so much that I lost who I was. I forgot what it was to be...me.
So when he left, when I was no longer convenient to him, he took everything with him. My laughter, my joy, my ability to find the silver lining in any situation. He took my faith, my trust, my belief in others...
But, he did leave me with something at least.
He left me with a shattered life. He left me with trust issues. With depression, and anxiety attacks at work. He left me with more tears than can be counted and endless empty tissue boxes. He left me with a shell of who I once was.
And he was gone.
I guess when it's not a priority, it's easy to leave. When the one person who sacrificed everything she had...who gave every piece of herself.
But, HE was his priority.
So no. Never again. I will never be a back pocket, third place, maybe one day girl. I will never let myself beg for affection and love again. I will NEVER be made to feel unwanted. Forgettable. Disposable.
I want to be wanted. I want to be THE priority. Because when you truly love someone, they will always be your priority.
Otherwise, you never loved them at all.
Just the convenience of them.
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 9:21 PM UTC
I am no back burner girl
I better be taking up the whole stove
I want what we are cooking to feed a multitude
I want it to be good enough and big enough
to share and pass around
I want my meat slow cooked and laced with butter
Dripping and falling off the bone
Everyone seems to be looking for a microwave meal
Which really is just being afraid and settling
Scared to not get that home cooked meal right
But here is the thing about a slow cooked meal
You get time to reverse your mistakes
You get to soak some things in
And the warmth it gives you
Surpasses all your desires to be right and perfect
Allowing you to just surrender into what is
Giving you understanding that the bitter complements the sweet
That it is just as necessary.
So I want to have fought with you before we had ***
And when we do get there
I want to break upon each other
Because we are practicing letting go
I want to know what happens when you blackout drink
And I liking knowing how you kiss other girls
I hope you know how I am when I am thirsty
I want you to know what it looks like when I am careless
And how it goes when I pick myself back up
I need to know the exact flushing shade of your shame
I want you to know how I hide mine
I want to know what it is to doubt you
I would also like to know what it is to forgive you
Or for you to have to forgive me
I don't want you in the bar bathroom
I don't want to be bent over holding the wall up with eyes closed
I wanted to be so deep in your eyes that it truly feels like we are one
I want you in my bed
Completely naked, physically and emotionally
With sunlight pouring through the window
I don't want to be ******* for an ******
I want to meander and explore and be fascinated
I want to be so in tune with you that when you opened yourself to me
I get to appreciate every beautiful
and even ugly molecule of it.
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 10:54 PM UTC
"You're not a lot of fun to be around" she blurted
Not the first time I've heard it
I went
From being bullied to being A bully, was never meant to be permanent
You can probably guess what temperament brought more enjoyment?
So there's a solid argument to be had for it being a just verdict
But if you've never been in that predicament hold your judgmental hyperbolic rhetoric
Most folks seek out that kind of empowerment but keep it quiet, I'm just admitting it
Look, nobody's perfect but the crime has never fit my punishment
Pushed and shoved "getting back to the old me" to the back burner, against my better judgement
Cause I didn't bother with it any further, now a derelict social misfit
Then when it's my turn to take back the moment
My retort, a one and done statement;
Fck you, fck the planet and fck everyone on it
Easier to parrot that then to admit no one can stand me past the first minute
I don't know if it's the misplacement of hurt and anger, a cover for inadequate social alignment
Or a relentless deep seeded resentment for the general public
Not sure but it definitely feels organic
This old dog ain't capable of learning a new trick regardless of any enlightenment
Kinda sad isn't it?
©2024
Jan 16, 2024
Jan 16, 2024 at 6:30 PM UTC
do you have a dark secret
my darling
a terrible brain
instead of nice ***** pink
girl things
you ache for ****** insertions
cutting edges
menstrual swab mouth plug selfies
while you pretend all is well
loving Mother Mary
at the church with mummy
knowing
deep down inside
your a ***** *****
god dam the boys look good
do you have the courage
to admit it
first to your self
and then another
or shall you live
muzzled
as you finger *****
obsessed with flying *****
and devils teeth
pigs nuzzling mud and ****
strewn at a *** trough
you love playing with fire
hot toes and ****
oh yeah
turn up the ****** heat
your craven desires
to be a **** toy
and then the pleasure
break me break me
twisted broken
little **** toy
if you could only find me
your
Lover
Linker
Licker
Sucker
Thinker
Maker
Shaker
Breaker
******
Burner
Cutter
Shooter
Impaler
the one who glorifies
your *** hole
insinuates kisses that tear
who adores your
midnight whimpers
howls of pleasure
cries for help
no safe words
bending bending
broken
mutilation gasms
you smiling
succubus
hobbling over
for another hard blow
your **** drenched
******* zinging
from razors play
blood red rivulets
falling on pretty feet
while good people
dream of angels
you dream of
big cocked men
and merciless gang bangs
a sweet ***** of Babylon
hard justice
cruelties ecstatic
being beaten to death
by 100 buttered *****
legs and arms piled high
and **** and **** and more ****
your holy trinity
no you say
there must be some mistake
thats not you
your on gods leash
burying yourself
in black rocks
crypt of normalcy
your goody goody goody
time to cinch up
veil of the nunnery
hinge on the death mask
no honey
theres no gorilla
in your cave
crushing girlie's soul
pride will out shine all
til last bloom is no more
then learn laments fury
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 1:22 PM UTC
I'm extremely disorganized
I don't know what belongs where
Take my eyes for example
I can't find a place to rest them
I tried setting them on you
But everyone agreed that **** wasn't working
They explained that an organized man
Adheres to categories
And you and I
Are not of a kind
I attempted to argue that you organized me
My heart
My mind
You folded me neatly
When you beat me
You always made sure to set me aside when you were done with me
You'd place me in a bin
Or release me to the wind
Yet there was a burdensome fault in my littered logic
They explained that an organized man
Is clean
I must use eyes that are sanitized
To see how we're not categorized
And avoid your matador eyes
Because things will get messy
When the bull in your fists
Sees the roses in my heart
My humanity starts to part
And my wishes I begin to opine
For the nature of a bovine
So I wouldn't misplace my eyes
And be what I'm classified
But that nature eludes me
As do most things
On account of me being disorganized and all
But I'm a quick learner order burner page turner
I may not know what belongs where
But I know I belong neither here nor there
Making my eyes not belong anywhere
This is what develops my entropy stare
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 11:20 PM UTC
She bleeds ‘all tragic steam work blasted mists
‘All hobbled clamped free fall for ‘all seasonal depression slump
She’s ‘all death knell cramp urgency and held back suffering kneeling
on kitchen floors ‘all like boarding school broomsticks lessons
with ‘all that theoretical **** the ***** save the man type
schlock shock rhetoric shtick
so ‘all I’ll be is her savage heretic wagon burner page-turner
on the hot coal back burner ‘all boarded up sealed shut in the walls
until she calls
Expecting me to be 'all combat ready
‘all back with a vengeance
while her thrift store hazard suit groups and droops
‘all over my haphazard dream sliced hang nailed hangover hands
hiding ‘all derelict style while between the sheets confessional
gets voided by social media air raid sirens
bringing me ‘all too close to rocks and crystals
and who ‘all needs another pathetic apathetic
junk punk when
‘all and ‘all
I'd rather die for you
because
I just can't live with myself
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 3:08 PM UTC
I wrap my arms about my torso and brush my thoughts 'gainst you,
crying.
*Rainwater best cures a torn-soul
when boiled in a *** atop
a burner left burning all night.*
Crying,
the sky giveth us wonders and taketh the wonders away.
O' the water's down a'boilin'.
Ye' it all boils down to you.
To you and how you go.
Ye' when you go, you go.
O' where you a'goin' too?
See that go-getter go-gettin' his girl–
Good for him. Good for him.
Send some good for the man with a will when he wills his will to be.
And good for the fingers who first feel a fortune 'fore the fortune is seen.
And good for the addicts relapsing in attics with kisses of dopamine.
And good for the thoughts of you that brush against my skin,
that for days on will hold–
*Eighteen! Eighteen! I say eighteen years is the bridge,
the forest fires will forever forget to burn!*
I say give it a year and call him on that telephone and
he will answer on that telephone and
you will beg his heart come home, beggin' a'bargainin'–
*Eighteen! Eighteen! I have missed you for some time,
bent-to-bet a century's pass'd since we last kissed.*
One match done been lit in the county matchbook.
Such is the click-click of a gas stove igniting,
I call that rip-exciting, torn-enticing, fates be a'dicing–
*Eighteen! Eighteen! It was another day–
It was another life.*
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 9:52 PM UTC
Lover
Linker
Licker
Killer
Thriller
Sucker
Thinker
Stinker
Maker
Shaker
Faker
Breaker
******
Burner
Crier
Cutter
Perforator
Shooter
Impaler
******
oh I forgot cannibal
and
I'd love to have you to dinner
.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 2:01 PM UTC
there will be no love poetry today
Sabbath cancelled
there will be the will to love
and there will be poetry
someplace
but not here, not today
the load bearing suspension
of belief
beyond busted
the mind
no mas
busted
one killing too many
love poetry seems inappropriately fruitless
there will love
and there will be poetry
somewhere
but not here
more than pointless,
sacrilegious,
human sacrifice ruthless,
a ****** sacrilege
the world profaned and the blood spilling
is in everything and everywhere
and has driven the love poetry out of this person
maybe tomorrow
may it be tomorrow, we will pass a twenty four
news cycle
with the bombs gone quiet
the innocents surviving
and the god spark burner inside me will
relight on its own
but not today not here not me
there will be
no love poetry
and this
this not a poem
<>
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 9:06 AM UTC
I'm just another
Voice mail..
Unanswered E-mail..
Unheard prayer ..
Whisper on a scream..
Outlaw..
Outcast..
Back burner bygone..
Stumbling block..
For those I was once loved by
And there for
I forgive them
And move forward
Towards a happy ending
I pray you do the same
After all
That's what good people do!
Sep 12, 2019
Sep 12, 2019 at 11:01 PM UTC
*The most broken people live on earth.
Not even a good poet and wont pretend to be.
I fell asleep at my desk reading boring poems in school.
I failed the test on how many stanza in a poem.
Writing about broke people makes me feel good.
It's a long *** poem so read it or not read it. Word up!*
Call me white boy playing black hipster like the broken record Miley.
I can't type twerk on my keyboard but turning all ghetto on y'all.
Lady done done all she can to shock and mess with our minds.
What she gone do next, buy a house in a black hood and live there?
That's messed up and so I'm dumb and I love attention.
I live in a big town population less than sixteen thousand.
We listed on the map as a god ****** city. Word up!
I need to be a hipster and I'm going hood on y'all.
In my hood I see houses needing fixing and painting.
Got a friend who lives in a trailer park
metal piece that goes around the bottom of his trailer
fell off and his pipes froze during that weather deep freeze.
He's renting that trailer that should be condemned
like most trailers in that park but who the **** cares?
He's got a roof over his head and he should be grateful
he ain't homeless like the rest of the trailer park dwellers.
Landlords don't give a **** they care about collecting rent.
We got men and women living on internet trolling Craigslist.
Most trolling hoping to find dates are married.
Single men and women seeking sugar daddies and mommies.
They are broken people.
I walk down streets and our old and newer malls.
Same weird *** people shop at both.
I see women yelling at kids with ****** diapers that smell bad.
One used the back of her hand to wipe a snot nose
then went back to talking and texting.
Women with babies at home meeting men they met on personals.
Good place to hide when they married or got men.
Leave the babies at home with sitters or family and find new men.
Hanging out at malls is a fake.
"Meet me at my pickup in a half hour and don't wear ******
Read that message on a burner cell I found at the new mall.
It's a burner so it don't need to be returned.
Read the rest and she is married and has more than one lover
she met off personals.
Work it girl and keep the sugar daddies coming!
How many broken moms who should not be moms exist?
There are too many broken people who exist.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 6:38 PM UTC