"critiques" poems
3-2-2017 (unknown date of origin)
Something's wrong... you don't belong here.
I said, looking down at the pineapple on my pizza.
I said, looking down at the ketchup on my macaroni.
I said, looking down at the cream of mushroom soup on my meatloaf.
He said, looking down at me and my boyfriend, holding hands in public.
Like I'm a creep. I'm a ******
What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here.
You see there's these things that we learn at the dinner table.
When we're kids we have certain items served to us on our plates.
Whatever doesn't end up there, isn't a part of the discussion.
After all, they say if you don't have a seat at the table, you are likely to be on the menu.
So, when ****** orientation and gender identity aren't seated at the table of childhood, they get served for the first time in unexpected places.
Like an avante garde celebrity chef's designer meal, prepared for critiques by the food bloggers.
They get served in college classroom debates or in dorm rooms with freshman roommates.
They're on the menu in in some movies but served with a side of stereotypes and silly trope toppings.
They get grinded into glitter dust sprinkled on the annual PRIDE Parades like an overly salty seasoning mix.
They're on the menu in workplace diversity trainings, but too little too late - they get lost in the marginalized buffet.
They get served at the oppression Olympics, or actually at the Olympics unwillingly by a journalist who only pretends to eat a well-balanced diet, but really has LGBT food allergies, if you know what I mean.
In reality, these should be staple dishes consumed by commoners, consumed by you and me, consumed by children along with their healthy daily dose of broccoli and cauliflower, squash and zucchini, even eggplant.
They should be in every ******* cookbook with pictures and all different kinds of recipes!
I want every child to have gay on their dinner plate, lesbian lunch, gender nonconforming on the brunch menu, and bisexual breakfast.
And everything in between in the queer spectrum served during snack breaks.
I want every child to look down at their plate and see pineapple pizza and say, gee that looks great!
I love all of the pizza toppings, no matter whether gay or nay.
... except for anchovies, of course.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 4:28 AM UTC
I feel suffocated talking to lots of people,
I feel so lonely in every parties I attended,
I can not stand the crowds all time,
I feel scared about their thoughts on me,
yet,
why,
Do I feel so secure expressing myself in verses and lines,
Voicing every pieces of my thoughts and story,
To the people I never met face-to-face,
And gladly accept any critiques to my words...
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 10:31 AM UTC
Someday I'd like to wander free
like butterfly, like bumblebee,
perhaps to plant a willow tree
beside the silent solemn sea,
before these things exist no more,
from mountain top to shifting shore,
when, soon, bald eagles cease to soar
and build their aeries nevermore,
and fish forsake polluted streams
(where sulfur swims and typhoid teems
since no one really cares it seems)
to die inside our toxic dreams
while ice caps melt and winter steams,
and all the air surrounding reeks
as children choke, for no one speaks
of fracking wells or oily leaks
(Big Brother's silenced all critiques!),
and rancid rains acidify
so woods no longer multiply
(for God so wills, we can't deny,
which is, of course, our alibi).
And as the deepest ocean fills
with plastic bags, and garbage spills
upon the plains, across the hills
and turns to poison dust that kills
wild dingo dogs and daffodils
which sink in swamps’ forsaken swills,
the mocking bird makes light and trills
(midst waning wails of whippoorwills)
"Behold the surreal scene that chills
and greet the dread that death distills!
You've had your day with all the frills
that brought the flood and final ills
that can't be cured with bitter pills
nor yet undone with further thrills
of profit gained that grinds and fills
dead desert sands with dollar bills."
EPILOGUE
Though swaddled still in infancy,
we feel we’ve reached our primacy
(aloof, though preaching piously,
disdaining deeds of decency)
and have no need of augury.
But in the pit of prophecy
the crucial questions seem to be:
“Is doom Earth’s fate, our destiny
to twist in tides of agony
destroying nature’s progeny
with no return a certainty
assured by death’s finality?”
and
”Should we plant a willow tree
to someday weep for you and me?”
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 2:45 PM UTC
Jealousy
Is hell
Because I do not enjoy
Myself,
And well
I enjoy all of you-
You
With your smooth moves
Perky and peachy attitudes
Teach me
To be as sweet
As you-
Beautiful
Can be cruel
Not like it is on tv,
Or beside me
Everyone shining,
Smiling,
While my smile feels
Like hiding
Under this wax mask
A painted canvus
Of pale and black
Don't look at me
I'm a heartattack
A bad act-
Broken glass
Of a painted doll
I am a leo lioness
Right?
Righteous-
Your hieness
Sparkles on my eyelids
But you see
I have enough pride
To hide it-
Its priceless,
Really hillarious
Sometimes I feel
Like a bad *****
But I'm none of this
I am the pray,
The gazelle in the grass
But I am also the lion
Waiting to attack myself
Because you see,
Jealousy
Is hell,
I am the lion
I am the gazelle
I am heaven and hell
In a vessle of myself
See what you will,
Your critiques are nothing
My only enemy is me
My only savior is me
I am a lion
But I am also
A sheep
Don't look at me
Sometimes I cry in the mirror
Blink my mascara tears,
Blurry mess-
Can't fit in my old dresses
Tearing apart at the seams,
Literally
Filthy
Famish
Crawled out of my skin
And made some bad habits
Declining wealth
Declining health
Laughing as the scales tip-
After all I am a person,
Not permanent
Why should I care
Oh,
But I do
I do when I look at you
You with your talented hands
With your spider lashes
And good moods
Teach me to feel
As good
As you
My lipstick smears and screams
As the paintings on my face mock me
So will my body,
My body thats bruised
And missused
Perfume to cover the *****
They'll see my cherry lips move
But they won't hear me talking
Its perfect,
The mask of confidence
My incompetence
Is a perfect fit
No, really
Its lovely
When I wear it,
People love me!
Because people think
I love myself
No
Jealousy
Is hell,
Beacuse I do not
Love myself
I love everybody else,
Even the ones who
Say I am full of it,
Selfish leo,
Selfish lion
Exaggerated ego-
Winking eyelids
Sparkle,
Wings to my forehead-
I flaunt
What I don't want,
Because you want me to
You want me
To love me
Like you do
All of you
I remember the words
From my mother,
Jealousy
Is not a pretty color-
Its crimson red,
Exposed
Like blood,
I've had to sew it up
No-
Don't look here
Not at my guts,
Look at my eyelids
Are these not enough?!?!
These cherry lips
Tell you to sush
Less of a lioness,
More of a cub
I know
I am my own predator
My own pray
I am
All of the above
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 3:38 PM UTC
The poem was inspired by a particular photo of the WT C, and after that by my first visit to the 9/11 Memorial. On the day of 9/11, I was working about a diagonal mile away, and from our windows, we could see people jumping to their death.
Open sky annulled
to bordered lines of
uptown edges,
worldview momentarily
forcibly redefined by
memories of buildings and sadder days,
recollections of pillars of biblical smoke rising
A photograph
makes me look up,
and sit down historically,
need to catch a breath,
to rest mentally,
upon a storied small bridge's steps,
that I well recall,
a disappeared street stoop.
all were rubble then and once
upon that day.
Wear, tear, and older eyes distill perspective,
but the hardy heart is hardly stilled
by the recognizable gray upon
bon vivant gray reflective surfaces of
memories of buildings and sadder days
So today, on a reborn street,
I rest upon reconstituted speckled curbstone,
the city's lowered down ledges,
the city's lowered down-town boundaries,
constantly redrawn, but
nonetheless, always rebuilt from their own
regenerated stony compost,
and the NY passersby doesn't even notice
a man, head in hands,
silently weeping, thinking that:
We throw away so much we should have kept.
We keep so much we should have thrown away.
Lose keepsakes, but keep our mysterious sadnesses
locked away in compartments that open only to
benedictions uttered in ancient tongues.
Make your own list,
be your own curator,
catalogue visions of sophomoric triumphs,
museum mile pile
those early poetic drafts,
be unafraid of memories
raw and ungentrified,
overlaid, buried underneath
postmortem of dust-piles of senior critiques
Finally went downtown to see
where the blessed water falls
into catacomb pits that once
were the foundations
of buildings that ruled the cityscape,
downtown anchors
for a modern city that exists
only because it was built on
million year old granite bedrock
Stone monuments are stolid, discrete.
Memories are of grayed, frayed edge consistency.
Negatives resurrected that survive digitally,
all blend synthetically, layer upon layer,
essence distilled in a single,
black and white photograph
that serves to
disturb complacency,
awaken stilled pain,
reflections suppressed,
are restored
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 6:36 PM UTC
the quality of quantity is unmerciful,
prodigious production of
wine improperly aged,
pours soiled drops
spilled without craft,
care or taste,
poured too quick to be
nothing more than
less than waste
born in reckless unrestrained
than every thought a golden gift,
bestowed upon the masses,
droppeth like the harshest hurricane rains,
gives no moisture sustenance to the world,
only floods and lays waste in dazed hazes
blesses none but the one who
cannot but cant,
measures his own demeanor in the mirror,
unsuspecting the mirror mirrors
the ides of ego,
seeds of self destruction
the throned monarch
who giveth
but does not take,
thinking the king he is,
his own best,
even better than his creator
and tho he carvo's his retno critiques
upon the brows of his subjects,
he cares not,
for it boring brings
more mastubatory page views
his addition of success,
his edition of self congratulatory
of writs and snits,
which adds up to a whole lot of
****
but you may put you pen down now,
for the world needs only
need one poet,
and it ain't me,
and it certainly ain't
you
.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 4:24 PM UTC
you have to be careful
what you put in your pomes
and how you word your critiques
some poets are unique
and their retorts
are silenced
like their critics.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
She was a child wild
wearing a white dress,
galloping through fields of unrest,
inspiring anxious warheads,
for a hot second.
Off to the next.
She was
anxious like a feather
caught in a breeze,
far from that child
that minded none
the weeds.
Backhand compliments
more potent than
misogynic critiques.
She was Marilyn Monroe.
Where was Norma Jean?
Living in a man's dream,
pinned up in a
concrete bunker,
a porcelain poster
tearing each time
she wasn't taken seriously,
or spent nights
alone aside a dusty phone,
with no home but
Norma Jean,
Marilyn's martyr
long at peace.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 6:42 PM UTC
Selfhood:
Strange burden
to be trapped
in perceptions
All the heavier
When alone.
Expectation wraps
her bony hand
around my heart
And squeezes tighter
With every failure.
Overheard critiques
build bad blood
My battered bravery
turns green
and spoils.
Persistence is as twinned as the judge.
Is it necessary for resolution?
Is it self abuse?
Hope is a shattered plate
Sharply paralyzing bare feet.
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 3:27 PM UTC
You can make your jokes and remarks,
And I'll just take it in my stride,
But don't ever think the things you say,
Will make me run and hide.
I may not care about your opinion,
But I will not tolerate your lies,
I won't listen to your gossip,
But I do have my pride.
So next time you feel the need,
To draw attention to yourself,
Leave me out of you critiques,
You have your own stories to tell.
If you think you're above us all,
I'll bring you back down to earth,
Because believe me darling,
Your darkest secrets can be unearthed.
I know things about you,
You don't want spread about,
But keep on spreading rumours,
And I'll start to shout them out.
Don't mess with me honey,
I may look calm and sweet,
But there is a side of me,
You really don't want to meet,
You really don't want to take me on,
Because I have nothing to loose,
And willing to take a bet,
That what I have heard is true,
Continue to try and break me,
And I will ruin you.
Jan 10, 2017
Jan 10, 2017 at 11:58 AM UTC
Rock step, trip-le, trip-le
Rock step, trip-le, trip-le
Judah bids us "Good morning!" at nine at night,
He's like Fred Astaire,
Big moves and big ears.
Dylan is late coming in,
Sliding out of his leather jacket with a sour expression -
He's too cool for this game.
Lindsey drags in the speaker system,
All goofy grins and ugly sweaters,
And she's so happy to see us.
Rock step, trip-le, trip-le
Andy with his slick moves
and slicker hair.
Matt who always smelled strange
but lost to Kevin.
Susan with her tight, swinging hips
and constant critiques.
Pete thinks he can do this,
and then breaks your arm.
Caleb concentrates too hard,
and tries not to look you in the eyes.
Josh gets bored with the basics,
deciding to breakdance instead.
Rock step, trip-le, trip-le
Rock step, trip-le, trip-le
And after an hour of being passed from one lead to the next
Like a hot potato,
And then standing with your back against the basement wall
During the free-for-all,
You decide you rather be studying algebra
and leave.
Lindsey waves goodbye.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 2:05 AM UTC
Sara L Russell 8th June 2016
_________________________________________________
Dear Sir or Madam, we regret to say
your manuscript is not quite what we need;
so therefore we're returning it today,
with all good wishes that you will succeed.
* * *
Dear [your name here] regretfully these days
we do not read submitted manuscripts;
we're mainly doing television plays
and cannot give out full critiques or tips.
* * *
"I'm sorry but our editor's away
and he's the only one for poetry
what was your name again? But I will say
we will get back to you eventually."
* * *
No news is good news, so we carry on
till everything but desperation's gone.
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 3:47 AM UTC
I awoke one morning
To light beating through the window,
The steady hum of the city
In my bones. I was in a manic mood
Before noon, half-dressed with my hair
Standing straight from a nervous hand.
My chest throbbed with a warm weight,
A smoldering ember that expression could extinguish only.
I wrote and cried and bled
To get the vibration I was feeling
Down on paper. In vain I spewed
Collections of letters, contorted and foreign
My mind was
Shooting up skyscrapers and
Strolling down streets of shine;
I could but lust at a copy of Gatsby through a puddle of cheap wine.
I suddenly found I couldn't take my walls,
Any longer.
I forced open the window
And the city flooded my room,
Sending papers sailing. I resonated
With the silver river
And all of me cried for release.
I scrounged together clothes and wet my hair,
Then bolted out the building.
I was embraced by the world and twirled along,
Hull to hull with the lonely lot.
We, the builders of this landscape,
The elemental moving force
That hollowed these ashen canyons.
Day by day we toil along our track,
Carving deeper and wider, shifting specks,
Seamlessly, we are one-
Crisp dress shirt and an expensive smell, cracked black work boots and a ponytail.
I raised my eyes to the brilliant glare
Of the segmented sky and considered the beauty of being
A drop within a trickle.
Rushing, rushing, I flowed around corners
And broke against departmental shores.
I sought my gaze in a fifth avenue reflection but found only lips.
If people are the sea then I am the mist.
Understand me-- I felt not love for others,
But a crushing connectivity.
Drifting, drifting, I was swallowed whole by anonymity, crew and ship.
Critiques are very much appreciated.
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 11:14 PM UTC
A lo mejor mi sentir hacia ti
No se compara al tuyo
pero un motivo
me as dado a escribir
sobre lo tuyo
el tiempo sigue corriendo
oportunidades se van desvaneciendo
recuerdos desaparecen
sentimientos borrosos que no vuelven
te conocí
y en una esclava me convertiste
a ese vino espumoso
años tras años
cambio tras cambio
solo vino seco en mis labios tengo
en mis sueños
revivo recuerdos
mi conciencia me desvela
esa tortura que intento borrar
nunca te busco
siempre apareces
el pasado me persigue
cuando intento olvidar
no me culpes ni critiques
mis sentimientos
si borrarlos no puedo
solo lagrimas bajan
cada ves que te veo
es inútil cuanto te quiero
desperdicios creaste en mi sentir
solo recuperarlos es mi vivir
para dar se los alguien sin fin...
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 7:13 AM UTC
« Notre amour était mon seul arme
Aujourd’hui j’ai que des larmes
Notre confiance était le seul accord
Maintenant le doute tue votre propre âme
J’ai compris votre jalousie mais
N’oublies pas que je suis une femme
Une femme amoureuse de toi ,fidèle
Et surtout confiante à toi et à moi-même
Oublies les paroles ,et les critiques des autres
Laisses nous vivre une histoire pleine de charme
Pardonnes moi de tous ce que j’ai fait
Stp pardonnes votre futur dame »
Elle m’ a dit;
J’ai répondu:
« personne ne mérite tes larmes
Et celui qui les mérite ne fera surement pas pleurer
Sois sur que je te souhaite que de bonheur
le bonhur… que t' attends...
avec quelqu'un que tu admires
Tu as choisi de jouer tes cartes au profondeur
Et mon jeu était toujours à la hauteur
Tu as détruit ton propre amour
Tu m’as perdu pour toujours
pour m’oublier , Tu as besoin du temps
mêmes les anges ont besoins du temps de repos
cherche quelqu’un qui fait rire ton cœur
moi je ne peux t’assurer que de malheur
la vie m’a donné une deuxième chance
je vais rattraper mes fautes d’enfance
tu étais la grande faute de ma vie
tu es la personne que …………j’ ai pas envie. »
Abdelkadir BELHADJ
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 4:45 PM UTC
I see what you're doing; I know what you are.
Seen you travel some distance through
this lyrical bar.
I know your particular flavor,
as you 'give' yet leave nothing
to savor.
Did you say it all...did you feed your
callous need?
As your 'so called' critiques and comments
just left another to bleed?
How 'brave' you are behind your avatar,
but you see,
You've done little, if anything, to honestly
impress me.
You use your lack of diplomatic restraint
to simply crush spirits and leave behind
a dark, bitter taint.
Did you say all you needed, does is make
you feel better?
To ruffle thin feathers; crippling feelings
altogether?
I know what you're doing; I could BE you,
if I very well wanted to!
The bile and power of your word,
leaves poor souls understanding
that their thoughts and opinions, to you,
are absurd.
Time after time I read your insolent speeches
on many a blog,
as you spew forth your 'wisdom', dispensing
a high voltage flog.
I know what you're doing; I could BE you,
if I very well wanted to!
Unlike YOU, 'friend', I prefer to pay visits
and leave a word of kindness;
never leaving them with lyrical blindness.
Sometimes I may read, and have nothing
to say...if their words overwhelm, hit a nerve,
or inspire my mind to stray...to a place of
recognition...far, far away.
I just felt this deep need to express,
how you're grating on my nerves;
with your sour, evil comments
just disguised as 'clever words'.
Go on now, my 'friend', try to pen
words that INSPIRE...
I promise I'll be kind, even as
I unleash my fire...
unto the likes of you...
such a mean spirited shrew!
So next time, give great thought
to your comment before you click away,
'cause I know many a great poet here,
that by YOUR cold, pathetic words...
will NOT be chased away!
-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 9:18 PM UTC
put your hands on me, nice cold and arrogant
be with me until time declares us ignorant
of the majestic sun's son's daughters
created in a circle of death,
and life
everythinginbetweenyouandI
the "and" between
soothes underneath you
beds cool and warm
sheets ripped up
pillows destroyed
i can get no sleep when i want to
i'm up all night putting myself
into what ideal
you've created
if i understand
can you understand
that i can be patient if you can be my patient
i'll relieve your tension with my medicine
nice and warm
untilthenithoughtitwasjustaline
no decision has a meaning
i can be your patient too
soothe me until I can get rid of my sickness
insanity,
whatever
i've been annihilated but endless critiques
and praises
but they're all in my head
they're all in my head
(just like us)
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 10:09 PM UTC
Again
Such a vivid yet abstract motivation, a warm sense of meaning in my gut concocted from some poignant expression
And again I'm at it
Clattering into a comfort, a comfort absent of the cellular and substantial, yet so personal and surreal
Without a definite direction, do these words have meaning?
Well... what means a lot to me right now? What clenches against my skin, burning it red with tension in pure uncomfortable distraction? What insecurities make me feel as though my bones and bits could brittle to the point of sand?
Well.. the usual. Clarity, validation, ****** release, a definitive admirable prowd sense of self, a bunch of ethereal concepts that haven't had the decency to manifest themselves and be nice enough to kick me in the face, shocking my nerves into a smile of reality. And the usual reflection on these worries reminds me of the usual image glimmering back, a response of criticism. For fuck's sake.
And it is then I say **** you to the irrational and rational growths of pressure, and try to discern, rationalise, make distinct what matters. Or I let it all go, but remind myself soon enough that the world is waiting. The usual.
I wonder if that job, career, book, **** even if that house would center the scales, but I doubt it. I wonder if the girl would massage my mind into tranquility, or if that girl will even be close enough to not notice me there. Or if a new someone will wander in, force me into a unavoidable eye contact.
Either way..
The rooms are less foggy, the words are more clear. The mirror man does look sexier. The critiques will keep coming, the work will cycle and the validation won't be felt for a while, and may not be felt at all from the sources associated. But my tongue has more words and my throat has more volume. The stigma of the eyes from a thousand people morphs from suspicion to callousness to clarity.
So yeah. The meaning here... well...
I'm fine thanks.
How are you?
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 6:36 PM UTC
I don't wear black clothing (when I do)
because I think it'll make me fit in with 'cool' people,
I wear black because I like it.
I enjoy it. I think it's rad.
I don't wear black nail polish on my fingers and toes
because I think it's 'cool,' or that I want others to think so,
I put it on because I like the way it looks.
I like the chipping that happens;
I feel it's a microcosm of Time, itself.
Nail polish exemplifies Wabi and Sabi.
Besides, I have quite the affinity for black.
I don't wear black eyeliner (when I do)
because I think it makes me so metal,
or because I think I need makeup to look good,
I wear it because I enjoy the theatrics
and I like the way it makes me feel.
I don't have the style I do
because I want to associate with
Goths, Rockers, Steampunks or Metalheads;
I have the style I do
because I genuinely like the way it looks.
It just so happens that I get those labels
because people like to put people in boxes.
I don't do what I do
because I want others to notice and like me for it, if anything,
many others will simply mock and make fun of me for it,
but, ironically, much of that spite and disdain
merely fuels my relished rejection
of modern cultural normality and gender roles.
In times of identity crisis, how weird is it to self-identify?
I do what I do
because I like to do it,
because it makes me happy;
because everything is a way to express yourself,
if you only allow it to be such a medium,
if only you find things to use as such mediums.
I see it as Art for the body,
somewhat poetic and transient;
make of it what you will.
It's truly too bad
everyone misconstrues expression
based on their own psychology,
even me. I do it too, though I try not to:
I am not exempt from my own critiques;
I am, in fact, my closest frame of reference.
At the end of the day, though,
you just have to do what you like,
for people and words shall fade
but it is what you have within that stays.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 4:03 PM UTC
Writing with tired eyes,
Tie-dyed red.
Through wine mist he stares ahead,
Through walls and time until he finds,
A scene with Alice, in January:
Her cherry blossom nails sailing
Down shivering spine,
Petal bud lips stalk my neck--
We advance and retreat,
Drawing out the chilled honey time
Until we meet.
Her hair cascades around me,
Waterfalls of Midas-felt wheat.
Waves of revelation overtook me and
Shivers of honesty shook me,
Under her starched ivory sheet.
Critiques and comments are much appreciated
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 10:36 PM UTC
I am here, waiting patiently for her,
though long time no see
like in ever, like in never,
my absentia, dementia,
both critiques of self-censure,
here, then, my cadenza,
dedicated solely soulfully for you:
as the sabbath sun rises over the East River,
saying, mocking, laughing upon me,
“still here, though long time no see,”
for though I cannot never look upon her as well,
my sun, my sun,
yet she, too is everywhere-inside of me,
woman-sun, both warmly illuminating my muddled mind
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 8:04 AM UTC
Art
Bounces
Calmly in a blissful
Daze.
Enlightened thoughts
Feathered with blackened
Grace.
Haunting lullabies
Illuminated by crying
Jokers,
Killed by shattered
Laughter and
Melancholy
Nights.
Oppressed by
Parasitic critiques,
Quick to judge the
Ravishing and
Sentient
Topics.
Unsuspecting to all, we
Visit the bleak and cold
World where
X-rays replace the blistering,
Yellow sun, and overshadow the
Zealous moon.
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 5:53 PM UTC
At 2:30 a.m., I drink a beer,
as if it is a crushed Ambien.
I light a joint (the parents are gone for the weekend).
My girlfriend is asleep in the basement,
eyes closed, lightly snoring,
the left side of her face is covered in scars
and burn marks.
I look around my room:
white and blue Ralph Lauren shirts
hang from the lampshade,
the collars and sleeves are layered with dust.
The bookcase is littered
with shoeboxes, novels,
and poetry collections.
I take a drag from my joint
and realize my ears are full of static,
as if they had been packed
with black and white TV sets.
There’s the faint sound
of a car
passing by.
The car is a reminder: Civilization,
glass buildings,
happy hour
at my favorite hole-in-the wall
in Chinatown.
I’m naked, but
not totally bare.
All I’m wearing are blue boxer briefs,
as though it is my uniform
for my current occupation
as a poet.
The blinds are open
and I wonder if I open the window and jump out,
will anyone give a ****
My therapist will probably label me as suicidal,
if I mention that last thought.
I think I’m just restless and idle.
I take another chug from my beer.
I’m hunched over a notebook,
and writing with a blue pen,
not because I think I’m an authentic writer.
But because my computer’s in the basement
and I don’t want to wake her; I love her.
But I can’t stand her critiques, in regards to me.
Maybe I can’t handle the harshness
in her honesty, as if it is a foreign language
coming from a stranger who I’ve known for years.
I’m not sleepy.
I’m scared.
Scared about growing up,
scared about having to stop
giving a ****
and finally having
to care about
my life.
Dec 15, 2016
Dec 15, 2016 at 12:47 PM UTC
What a critical world
I show off my talents
And get no praise
All you see are the tiny mistakes
You magnify the flaws
And shove them in my face
It’s a routine with everything I say
Everything I make
Everything I do
Now I strive for perfection
To silence your hate
And judgemental reviews
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 10:59 PM UTC