"cashed" poems
A lifetime ago, I was younger like you,
before my dreams faded and life was still new.
I wish I knew then, all that I know now,
I wanted our life but didn’t know how.
I settled for less and tried the right things,
and cashed in my soul for all that it brings.
I’ve made my mistakes, like others before,
forgiveness more fleeting, ‘til you closed the door.
Waiting for answers, I went into shock,
you left me no choice but to turn back the clock.
I walk this new path while finding myself,
forgetting our past is best for my health.
As I move along, a decade removed,
my body more fit now to go with my mood.
I realize by now we could have had more,
alone I will see what life has in store.
I so miss the comfort of you every night,
kindness from others, brings love at first sight.
Each new encounter, just gives me a shove,
reminding myself not to fall back in love.
When, where and who will be the right one?
I’ve so much to give, just let it be done.
I may never take them, to become my wife,
but I need embraces to sustain my life.
Addiction exists with drugs and affection,
I’m itching for love at each intersection.
How long must I wait to rip out the sutures?
Pleasure Delayer, indefinite future.
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 5:48 AM UTC
Fros-ty the Snowman
had a twin brother named Lou
He got hit by a truck,
and we said "What the ****
and "You should totally sue!"
Before-he could call a lawyer
along came a snow plow
it mixed him up,
with yellow snowman guts
and he got snowman AIDS and gout
The ne-xt day, Lou died
but he left an inheritance check
Frosty sued the man,
and took all he had,
then he cashed in both of the checks
Fros-ty moved up north
Alaska is where he's livin'
where he got buck wild,
and had a child,
that he fathered with Sarah Palin
Fros-ty the Snowman
had a twin brother named Lou
who brought about fame
to the family name
in Time and US Weekly too!!!
Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 4:52 PM UTC
We enter the church and immediately
have to push through two dozen sobbing Italian women
dabbing dry eyes; their tissues only show
black and multi-colored smears. Amid the echoing
“Oh my Goawd”s, they lean down and kiss my sister’s cheeks,
but even in my best black cap sleeves, I am the taboo
to my cousin Janet, a woman as barren as the stone lot
in between her husband’s restaurant and Deihl’s Autoshop.
We find an empty pew, and watch as the men
stride down the aisle, contestants
in a cultural Miss America pageant where the wrong answer
gets you whacked. Their heavy brows
sink in condolence as they hand over stacks of bills,
every hundred becoming a pity penny
for all the moments Janet lost in her luxury-life
made shiny by diamonds and cars and fur coats
which can’t be cashed in for a second chance at a family.
The men have paid for the food, the china, the band
in the corner meant to fill the space of sadness—
a reminder that we live a lavish life.
My sister shifts in her seat and as a man walks
by she touches his jacket, and gasps.
He’s a god.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC
The other night
I spent all of my tears & paid all my prayers,
I had hoped it would end it all.
My pillows
cashed in the huge streaming check
from every drop my eyes spilled.
My blanket held me down
while both thought took turns
throwing hard punches & kicks
at every square-inch on my body.
Then
my bones crunched
with every attempt
to fully drain the hope-
-ful air in my lungs.
I could only lay there.
Twitching out breathless cries,
rubbing blood out of my eyes
& taking it all in for the whole night.
The following day
I brought these thugs to work
but no one else seemed to notice.
My doctor tried to numb me with pills,
& I must admit
although they did work at giving it all the cold shoulder,
it didn't take long
before I struggled to use my shoulder
With their knives & spears steaked into my skin.
Every night now, I sleep to their stories
& their bullying,
eyes-wide,
cut-throat,
focused on breathing all night.
I thought I could fake my way through it all
but now
these noices have started making sense
& I
don't know why I'm breathing anymore.
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 3:42 AM UTC
Seduced
by the
school
shooter
singing
siren
songs
of
shotgun
blows
to the heart beat
of the wet American dream.
It's the human interest
horror allegory
The hero doesn't even get
15 minutes
But the shadow has
got a gun fetish
Counting bullets as
They're counting blessings,
numbered 1-27
3x his pump action
Light 'em up
***** 'em out
Some head-sick self-entitled
monster in a mask
on a mission of mass destruction
Cashed in on their
little tax deductions
The most sacred snuffed out
before the light could become them
It's the darkness that dominates
As the dragon **********
Witch inside
The mind
displacing emotions
away from the art of
living
loving
and losing
You're the submissive
Ascend the divine madness
or find yourself in shackles
in the machinery.
Humming
hypnotizing
hymns
of conformity
Another one's lost his mind
Descended
And the scapegoat
is mental illness
We all know,
The media is the medium
is the message
The subliminal secret passage
to the shared skewed subconscious
Planting ideas of bloodshed
Like evidence in the
Bodies of specific demographics
Demonize
Pack the prisons
Capitalize
And cut the blood losses
Here we are now
Hopeless
It makes for great entertainment
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 5:13 PM UTC
At Bookshop Santa Cruz
I look at a book about the East Bay then and now
One picture strikes me: 1969 Sproul Plaza
Govener Ronald Reagan has the National Guard spray
tear gas on protesters on the steps of this Berkeley Administration Building
People run in black and white
they look like my parents
The helicopter is so close to the ground, like the Vietnam War
I was three
In the backseat of our VW Bug
My mother was driving me to Strawberry Canyon
for a swim
Then she got scared--something on the radio
We turned around
I didn't understand
She had to protect us from tear gas
We lived in a war zone
Everyone was very upset
We were attacked by our own government
Even children were fair game
An innocent frog is placed in water
If the water temperature is raised gradually
the frog will sit there until it dies
In 1980 Ronald Reagan became our President
Much to our dismay
"70% of pollution comes from trees" he had announced
as Governer, he was obviously a man of science
The vice grip clenched, the water temperature raised
as we felt around us the world becoming more
difficult as a middle class
we were supposed to wait for crumbs to fall
from the table of the rich folks
fighting over the bits like starving animals
Budgets were cut
Prices rose, wages fell or disappeared completely
We were at war
1985: I took a class in Economics in college, a UC
I learned that Supply Side Economics was
a silly idea written on a napkin at a fancy restaurant
where the fat ones eat
and the crumbs are thrown away
It was all a sham
An excuse
The vice grip tightened, the world became
more difficult
not the American Dream my parents grew up in
To be middle class was to struggle and struggle and still
not have anything
The frog began to die
Somehow we saw that
Reagan drifted away, but his ghost
remained, a respite in the 90's
Then we were at war again
Not just tear gas, but carpet bombing
Guerilla warfare in the streets of a hot arid country
Oil companies, already saturating our ground and our air with their products
Cashed in
The frog is near death
We struggle, and nothing gets better
Only a respite
At a fancy restaurant
on a napkin someone wrote
a new theory of Economics
that became like Scientology
Outgrew it's ridiculous inception
And became real
Ronald Reagan dropped tear gas
from helicopters on Sproul Plaza
and it drifted to Strawberry Canyon
where children learned to swim
But that is child's play now
the frog is about to die
I want to pull it out.
Jul 21, 2012
Jul 21, 2012 at 5:01 PM UTC
I spend my love on you
like pennies tossed into empty fountains of youth -
like loose change loyally saved,
built up in a piggy bank,
a compilation of broken promises you never made
becoming blood clots in my lungs.
I would say they're in my heart
but I can't breathe when I see her.
Tax season is over and my savings continue
to drain -
they sit at your doorstep
waiting to be cashed in
for what I thought was an investment
but has become a liquidation of my entire being.
Empty wallets haven't caught wind of my addiction,
but the pennies on the ground talk.
Found heads down, I give them a voice,
and they, too, drown with the rest.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 9:01 PM UTC
© 2009 (Jim Sularz)
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, by wagon, train or foot.
Days not all that long ago, in tall ships made of wood.
“A gold rush struck in’49, all quite by accident.
A burning fever that cut men to bone, in a sea of dingy tents.
Day and night, they toiled and tolled, many headed home without a cent.
But some packed out bags of glistening gold, and made a stop at "Buzzard’s Breath."
"The town’s mud logged street, deep with horse manure, bubbled like a shallow grave.
With a Sheriff’s office, a livery stable, and a church for souls to save.
And a fancy house, on a grassy knoll – sign read, “Madam Lil la ****
With soft, curvaceous ladies who mined for hearts – and gold of a different sort.
Didn’t take long before easy gold, was extremely hard to find.
And burly miners, tough as steel, moved in to hard rock mine.
With bloodied knuckles, dented hats, they blasted at a furious pace.
To find the gold, called the Mother Lode, yellow blood coursing through their veins!
The mine they worked was called “Long Shot”, the men thought that name a curse.
But the miners hankered for the handle, "Buzzard’s Breath”, and the mine’s name was reversed.
As luck would say, they held a royal flush, when they hit that horse-wide vein.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found, this side of the Pearly Gates.
Eyes wide as saucers, they were all in awe, everyone was filthy rich.
The miners should have all retired and should have cashed in all their chips.
But a man’s hard to figure, when his blood is yellow, and he’s stricken with a gold fever.
“Eureka! Boys, *** the dynamite and a whole lot more mining timbers!”
They mined that vein to the bowels of the Earth, and the heat increased by day.
"Buzzard’s Breath" became the hottest place, to Hell – the shortest way.
And then one day, the men never came back. – Hell must have jumped that claim.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found – that’s where the Devil mines today!”
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, died a slow and quiet death.
Along with days of tall wooden ships, and the ghosts of Buzzard’s Breath.
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 5:46 PM UTC
Oh the cringing demon of eternal youth,
******* away promise and hard won truth.
I see far more than *** lingering, in her eyes
I see, instead, the milk teeth of youthful lies,
of forever and today, hopes and screams
replacing tomorrows, frayed at the seams.
Oh, mere *** be gone, you sordid troll!
Crawl yourself back in your hole.
If ‘tis *** you brought to this trapped piece of light
then speak to your own soul and leave me a bite
of the apple she does not offer
and the delights you think her youth will proffer.
I have no time to dance to your twisted tune
of youth over too fast and maturity too soon!
What stinks more of your ***********
her stretched, prolonged, aging youth or back bared, partial nudity?
I giggle as I consider her Eve-like dreams
of bitten apples and grander things.
And God said, let there be light.
Is that truly all He said when he banished the night?
Maybe she is wet from being born.
From demon Youth’s desperate grasp she is torn
and into the world, for a moment, she is cashed;
back bared and ready to be lashed
by the ‘cruel’ reality we keep from youth…
…like bronzed, baby booties and baby’s lost tooth.
Maybe, coquettishly, she glances ahead,
away from the bonds of youth’s birthing bed;
not, as you apparently dream, toward some sordid affair
you see in bared skin and strands of dampened hair!
There is beauty in her eyes, it is true,
the beauty of youth’s first, full faced view
of tomorrow and tomorrows again…
Exactly how long do you think, she should remain a youth, then?
Oh the Apple that lingers past ripe upon a tree,
Snakeless, Eve-less, unchosen, unbitten for an eternity.
Shall we trap, virginal, in iron cages of our blind, stupid lust
the false innocence of youth only tears and death can rust?
Foolish, foolish Adam and blind, impregnable Eve; is *** all you can ever see?
I can peer past your layers and layers and layers of false, bitter modesty.
If you see *********** then know this, before you atone:
You bring that demon wherever you go and it is yours and yours alone.
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 1:13 PM UTC
Some of us have twins,
most of us have split personalities.
Have you met Bandit yet?
Our lives aren't measured in years,
they're measured in our victories.
So take your blades and spill some blood.
It's a dog eat dog world.
If you play The King Of Hearts,
every hand in life
it will only get you,
cut, burned and thrown to the curb.
Used, depleted, robed of every thing you can lose.
It's **** without *******
&
I'm done, like a cashed bowl.
This hand I'm playing The Ace Of Spades.
Revenge stings like a bee and
like you said I have anger issues.
I'm drawing again.
I'm learning a new technique.
Sketching you out,
**** off.
**** off.
:)
Mar 7, 2012
Mar 7, 2012 at 3:31 AM UTC
#
*In time..
You will learn to forgive yourself..
for all the reasons why
you think you need
to forgive yourself.
The blame, and shame
placed in to you
was done in the most
horrendously unfair way..
when you were at such a
tenderly-young,
and impressionable age.
It was your v u l n e r a b i l i ty
that was so horribly cashed in on.
The greatest horror of all
was the shame and blame
that you were forced to carry..
as if it was your own doing..
It Was Not.*
#
Oct 17, 2021
Oct 17, 2021 at 9:30 PM UTC
There was a time I didn't stop to smell the roses anymore
I just wanted to hide away from the world
He took my childhood
He took my trust
All because of his sick ********** of lust
It took me awhile to finally see
That he was to blame for the horrible, awful ...not me
Once I started cleaning out darkened cobwebs
and the craziness from my mind
Those roses started smelling sweeter and sweeter all the time
Despite all that evilness from him
I overcame and I am longer victim
He on the other hand I hear is not faring that well
Seems as though he has already cashed in that one way ticket to hell
He can never hurt me or anyone else for that matter ever again
He loses and ...I WIN
Apr 2, 2012
Apr 2, 2012 at 11:00 AM UTC
Where skin meets pole,
In low society.
Is where I thrive.
This isn’t the right choice.
Singles hustlin.
Join me in these dollar days.
This is your light switch entrance.
Sitting at a marble bar
Loveless love, pay by the song.
Selfish fun, ***** talking on the jukebox.
Jazzin’ to the music.
Standing up on that marble stage,
Showing the world whats yours is ours.
Drunken memories lived to the fullest.
I’m out trying to discover America.
Stripped down to its rawest form.
This road is laden with fallen philosophies.
Tasting of ***** money.
Bitter.
Fully **** girls flashing. (lights)
Blow in the bathroom.
The nightlife you’ve always wanted.
Movie star lifestyle.
Dimly lit.
Have some backroom privacy.
Conversations with strangers.
This is naked in all sense of the word.
Sensual seduction.
Classical redemption.
Primal ecstasy.
Trying to make amends with myself.
This is a haggard lifestyle.
Society frowns upon us.
Shameful scandals.
Fake lovesick mannerisms
Paid for in advance.
Exposed on stage.
You’re in love with a stripper.
Kitty, Desire, Destiny, Velvet.
All the love you’ve been looking for,
For the price of admission.
Just sit back and watch the girls on stage.
This is it.
We’re searching for love.
And if we cant find love,
We’ll settle for lust and luck.
You’re well taken care of here.
Don’t you worry about a thing.
Just don’t run out of money.
Superficial lover for a pay as you go one-night stand.
Never lonely here.
Late night tonight.
In the back of the club.
Are we having déjà vu yet?
You’ve been here before.
You’ll be here tomorrow.
Just a little longer now.
Climbing up the pole to the ceiling,
Only to slam down in the splits.
Don’t worry it can only get better from here.
This is the right choice.
Bright light flashing.
You’re finally in the spotlight.
Sold out, checked out, cashed.
“Let me do all the work sweetheart.”
We must live the way we feel is right.
We’re all trying to make our way in this world.
Lets not forget each other.
Cocktails anyone?
Is this wrong?
Living in this life.
This party
that never ends.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 8:38 PM UTC
At the age of nine he wanted to die
which was something I couldn't understand
because I knew our mother loved us.
desperation so
doctors drill diagnostic decisions down his throat.
I pray he won't choke on the
shallow pills he has to swallow
hollow dreams he has to follow.
Sedating's seductive for families who can afford it.
The Founding Fathers have forged my future,
they've mocked my freedom and cashed in on humans.
America likes to revive our problems with the quickest fix, money solves it.
My brothers become another lab rat
to solidify the fact that these pills are legit.
Simply because his name appears on a list.
Ignoring the fact his original pain was nothing but a claim
against all of this cultural ********
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 1:25 PM UTC
To Certain Poets About to Die
Take your fill of intimate remorse, perfumed sorrow,
Over the dead child of a millionaire,
And the pity of Death refusing any check on the bank
Which the millionaire might order his secretary to
scratch off
And get cashed.
Very well,
You for your grief and I for mine.
Let me have a sorrow my own if I want to.
I shall cry over the dead child of a stockyards hunky.
His job is sweeping blood off the floor.
He gets a dollar seventy cents a day when he works
And it's many tubs of blood he shoves out with a broom
day by day.
Now his three year old daughter
Is in a white coffin that cost him a week's wages.
Every Saturday night he will pay the undertaker fifty
cents till the debt is wiped out.
The hunky and his wife and the kids
Cry over the pinched face almost at peace in the white box.
They remember it was scrawny and ran up high doctor bills.
They are glad it is gone for the rest of the family now
will have more to eat and wear.
Yet before the majesty of Death they cry around the coffin
And wipe their eyes with red bandanas and sob when
the priest says, "God have mercy on us all."
I have a right to feel my throat choke about this.
You take your grief and I mine--see?
To-morrow there is no funeral and the hunky goes back
to his job sweeping blood off the floor at a dollar
seventy cents a day.
All he does all day long is keep on shoving hog blood
ahead of him with a broom.
2.3k
I cashed out all my chips
got them exchanged for all their worth,
the tattered rags upon my body
I give back unto the earth
for sacrifice to be accepted,
all my blood turns into dirt.
I don't want to be forgiven,
just loose the weight,
disperse the girth.
I've tried so hard to lift my arms,
but this body's just a curse
I've got the prison of my skin
beneath which all is coded verse
try as I might, I can't take flight
though my head floats above the clouds
nobody hears the violent storm which springs from out my mind, so loud
convex'd, I'm hexed,
convinced that I will not find rest
the earth must feed from me
and plant it's seeds deep in my chest.
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 7:32 PM UTC
Nobody mourn,
nobody get hurt
We just project
redirect the blame
and sink back
into interactions
with coping devices
of mass distraction
The artificial womb
of the masses
Tethered by an invisible
umbilical cord
feeding us way
too much
information
Like hungry ghosts
salivating
the next notification
We can’t run.
We can’t hide.
There’s a threat to survive,
But we’re so ******* desensitized
Seduced by the school shooter
we don’t hear him coming
singing siren songs
heart-beating shotgun blasts
That leitmotif
in sync with
The American Horror Story allegory
Just forget it
Too much in the queue
Too many new things
We can’t reject this reality
It’s really ******* broken
Em, I’m sorry we’re descending
Much Madness has lost its meaning
It’s just the means to
unlock an achievement
Emulate another scumbag.
romanticize a villain
amplify the bodycount
Like how many do you need to ***** out
before they give you the cover
of the Rolling Stone?
It's comedically-tragic,
Stranger than satire.
The Judge, the jury
Executioner cutie
cut all your losses for ya
cashed in your lil tax deductions
The most sacred snuffed out
before the light could become them
Get woke a-f,
This is enlightenment!
Come on get
your mind blown!
He’s the one who loves
to shoot his gun
But he knows not what it means
knows not what it means.
Do you know what it means?
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 11:02 PM UTC
Today I bought some cheap press powder
That makes my face smell like cinnamon and old people.
It was fifty percent off and I could not hold myself back.
I cashed another pay check today,
Money money money money.
Everyone is really annoying.
I liked it better when my worlds were separate.
They have all collided as of right now.
I just want everyone to unacquaint themselves,
And/or go **** themselves.
Because I cannot spare my feelings,
As well as all of yours
At the same time.
Tonight I went to Olive Garden,
I did not finish my mushroom ravioli.
Oh well.
Just another day in the life of a non-super hero.
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 9:41 PM UTC
I dodged a desert eagle bullet and disappeared
As the swan's trumpet rusted
During the Pentecost
As the ordained minister pressed play
Chiang Kai-sheck pressed on against communists
My horse got spooked by some type of anomaly
Making me late for my two o'clock train
So now I have saddle bags of useless words
My cigarette's one giant granny ash
And my bowl is cashed
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 10:50 PM UTC
“The grief therapist will see you now.”
the perky redhead told us.
Her rolling hips then led the way
majestically before us..
Final arrangements must be made.
as our loved one is gone;
Melvin joined the choir invisible
singing his swan song.
He had been fading badly,
and we knew the end was near.
Now he’s a mortuary client,
pausing for his final bier..
Thank God for prearrangement
or we truly would be gored.
It gets to be quite expensive
when you’re sleeping with the Lord.
He’s shuffled off this mortal coil
and brought the curtain down.
Soon he’ll be checking out the grass
from six feet underground..
Melvin has given up the ghost.
He was snuffed out in his prime.
He cashed his chips in early,
passing on before his time.
“Your loved one’s in a better place.”
The Undertaker gravely said..
“His ancestors have embraced him
in a place of light, not dread.”
Some will say he kicked the bucket,
checked out early, bought the farm.
The religious say he’s with the Lord,
The perpetual light is on.
Melvin, were he here with us,
more likely would have said
a better place for him would be
that redhead’s poster bed.
Dec 8, 2011
Dec 8, 2011 at 7:24 PM UTC
A new day is dawning
Been waiting for weeks
Cashed in my pay cheques
To pay for the tweaks
Drawing, deciding,
Doubting my needs
Umming and ahhing
This lust i must feed
Booked the appointment
There's no turning back
Go under the knife
Would you look at that!
Followed the steps
and handled with care
The bigger the better
But same face and hair
Mid-chest attention
They all think I'm dumb
But not enough's changed
So I'll have my *** done
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 1:57 PM UTC
If ever
there was a spark in mindless stupid
would it not be the ladies remarking
at scooped cut asphalt
jagged, freeing suffocated Terre?
the most fertile , the most thirsty.
Lush outside. inside the skin?
rancid repulsive desiccation,
a piquant impulse for escaping love.
Mouth's morning wift: gloomy, heavy, smoke.
Eyes: blurrr,
Memory: cashed
Framework: gaunt & yellow, a Purple cadaver among stern Circles, reflecting the Nausea of popularprice
Mar 9, 2010
Mar 9, 2010 at 10:11 AM UTC
Words Heavy (Kiss Bukowski)
Drinking White Russians with Black Kenyans,
not joking you I was just in Ethiopia,
this it not a Haiku or a Love Poem,
this is gifted insanity like Jim Morrison,
no jealousy I’m already Seamus Heaney,
isn’t it ironic how we can be both depressed and happy,
like a ghost that won’t leave earth,
or a Self that’s over the hill but still tries to write ****
oh that’s touching,
like John Updike meeting E.E. Cummings,
not gay no way,
but I’d still kiss Charles Bukowski,
no bukkaki though,
because I’m a Simple Man and rather than,
bukkaki I’d probably like to make Love One on One,
I guess I’m New School and Old Fashion,
flirting with Death like I’ve already got my chips cashed in,
Life a Trip and can be a B!tch it depends on how you’re acting,
as an overwhelming sense of anxiety creeps into me,
like being Maya Angelou performing a show for the ****
a Civil Rights Superhero,
that makes Her point without any lustful thoughts of revenge,
presence light as a snowflake,
words heavy as the weight of the world on her back as it bends,
words heavy as the weight of the world on my will as it bends,
all the white watching my own show from the front row,
drinking White Russians with Black Kenyans,
joking I’m not joking,
I was just in Ethiopia,
this it not a Haiku or a Love Poem,
this is gifted insanity like Jim Morrison…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 7:57 PM UTC
So why do good girls like bad guys?
I had this question for a real long time
I've been a bad boy and it's plain to see
So why do good girls fall in love with me?
Whoa oooh ohhh Whoa oooh ohhh Whoa oooh ohhh Whoa oooh ohhh
You've got pep in your step
You live your life with no regret
How you look when you are wet
Is something I cannot forget
I just wanna kiss your lips
The ones between your hips
If I cashed in all my chips on you
Then baby, I'd be rich
So come on!
**** please text me
I'm ready for you
So come on!
Waiting, I'm begging
So please get here soon
So why do good girls like bad guys?
I had this question for a real long time
I've been a bad boy and it's plain to see
So why do good girls fall in love with me?
Whoa oooh ohhh Whoa oooh ohhh Whoa oooh ohhh Whoa oooh ohhh
Ooh la la, what lovely curves
Baby I get off by getting you off first
Sorry girl if this is quick
So please just take it in the *** and **** my ****
So come on!
**** please text me
I'm ready for you
So come on!
Waiting, I'm begging
So please get here soon
So why do good girls like bad guys?
I had this question for a real long time
I've been a bad boy and it's plain to see
So why do good girls fall in love with me?
Whoa oooh ohhh Whoa oooh ohhh Whoa oooh ohhh Whoa oooh ohhh
Guitar!
So why do good girls like bad guys?
I had this question for a real long time
I've been a bad boy and it's plain to see
So why do good girls fall in love with me?
So why do good girls like bad guys?
I had this question for a real long time
I've been a bad boy and it's plain to see
So why do good girls fall in love with me?
So why do good girls like bad guys?
(I wanna know, I need to know!)
So why do good girls like bad guys?
(So come on, I gotta know, I need to know!)
So come on, I gotta know
So come on, tell me!
***** you gave me the ******* clap!
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 4:53 PM UTC
My head’s drenched,
I lack an umbrella.
My clothes are soaked,
I lack a jacket.
My chin’s to the puddles,
So my brow drags the oil
And I’d crack if I had to smile,
If I had to say, “thank you,”
Just one more time
Under rain, under shame, and the
Laughing gods above.
With a sliver of scorn,
I do muster one more
“Thank you,”
As I’ve got my pay;
Cashed my last inch of dignity
And quickly lost
When I do the math and see
That I’d spent more on gas
As opposed to what I line my
Pockets with –
Lint and little more.
With a dwindling fuel,
Both in belly and beast,
I leave for the ends of existence
Knowing full well,
I’d return, I’d come home,
And when I can’t have food
I steal this simple moment,
A special kind of sustenance wherein –
I don’t want to see my wife,
My brother, or my mother.
I don’t want to see anyone or anymore.
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 9:20 AM UTC