"fisted" poems
a crack in her voice
a tremble in her words
a shiver from her body
a tremor from her words
her anger gave her palpitations
her anger brought tears to her eyes
she clenched her jaw
and ****** her fingers
the wall next to her
no longer seems like a wall
it was a punching bag
the blood trickles down her fist
but she doesn't feel the pain
not more than the anger
red hot burning anger
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 7:45 AM UTC
walking out of the liquor store
wine bottles double ******
asphalt concrete curb stone
the great expanse of the universe
the mundane
welded water tight
that Escher print
of ribboned minds
personal accounting
money as abstraction
automobile documents
layers of bureaus
the great and powerful
realm of ideas
shared fallen history
the strike of the pen
ideals ethics
the avoidance of sin
cold is coming
warmth is rare
plug into existential wetness
yet suffer banality
Friday, November 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 12:06 PM UTC
In a few moments I'd be thirty-five
Excited not but a feeling of dread
Time has come but have yet to arrive
I lay with a pillow over my head.
Tears streaming with eyes burning hot
Gasps in between, riddled with disbelief
Mess I've made that I wished I had not
It manifests itself in full ****** grief.
Discontented with how far I've fallen
Far cry from any semblance of my dream
So deep, wonder how far I'd have sunken
Long way down fraught with tears it would seem.
The sun had shone in the days before
Tonight it seems I'm alone in the dark
Wounds I thought had healed; still open, and sore
Thought they'd disappear but instead leave a mark.
Where do I turn before I start moving
I wish that I had some sort of bearing
Truth is in circles I have been walking
Plagued by questions that now need answering.
Like every year, I'd still make my journey
A lifetime it seems; walking with aimless pace
Wounds be forgotten and would scar eventually
Next year, I'd arrive back at this very same place...
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 11:01 PM UTC
I slept with her, my rapacious pen, took me in quiet vengeance in
full on conjugation
raken and taken, me,
her overlording me now, her authorship, so long held
in my maledom abeyance,
a kept imprisonment, unleashing at last, a tongue lashing~leashing,
de-spite my un-desirous craven lying supplications,
excuses of innocence and accident, coincidence and conflation,
ashes, ashes, denials incinerated, all fall down
she wrote/stabbed upon my heartless chest,
in the cheap crudités colors of a prisoner’s inking,
“user of words mine, all mine”
gathered up my innards of loose words,
speculative notes & titles yet to be,
born and kept hid in password protected silent back labor files,
now hers, leaving me sputtering, unable to create,
a homeless mute citizen, possession-less,
helplessly hoping her hovering harlequin might relent,
without any shelter, even a glimmering, a single aleph or bet
she celebratory cackled and clawed,
professed her reclamation ownership of all my poems predecessors,
zola j’accusing that I, ripped from her forcibly,
with no granted permission, her womanly touché of my scribing,
warning of no more global warming for my unprivileged hands,
daren’t try for pretenses of stolen legal guardianship,
warning of a new, forced caining inscription,
a tattooing of “thief” upon my 5 knuckled right ******
“plagiarist” boldly inked in back & blue upon my left palm
I, predator,
she, victim,
of my now self-professed, admitted confess,
she, my single victim,
of a decade long serializing criminal coverup
her parting poem a threatening,
herein issued in this very verse,
damning all who would falsely credit themselves,
to suffer shame and an unimaginable curse,
this, the newborn eleventh of ten commandments
parting, she kissing my lips, even my emptied apertures,
with warning bitings,
she knew all my
my numerous noms de guerre,
no dead scrolls caves to hid in, and to be discovered some future day,
and if ever marked as copyrighted,
’twas no tunneling escape,
the exposed truth to be over-stamped
upon all, upon each, in every language,
”copied right from the tongue of a woman!”
and she would be wright...
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 10:10 AM UTC
Child, the current of your breath is six days long.
You lie, a small knuckle on my white bed;
lie, ****** like a snail, so small and strong
at my breast. Your lips are animals; you are fed
with love. At first hunger is not wrong.
The nurses nod their caps; you are shepherded
down starch halls with the other unnested throng
in wheeling baskets. You tip like a cup; your head
moving to my touch. You sense the way we belong.
But this is an institution bed.
You will not know me very long.
The doctors are enamel. They want to know
the facts. They guess about the man who left me,
some pendulum soul, going the way men go
and leave you full of child. But our case history
stays blank. All I did was let you grow.
Now we are here for all the ward to see.
They thought I was strange, although
I never spoke a word. I burst empty of you,
letting you see how the air is so.
The doctors chart the riddle they ask of me
and I turn my head away. I do not know.
Yours is the only face I recognize.
Bone at my bone, you drink my answers in.
Six times a day I prize
your need, the animals of your lips, your skin
growing warm and plump. I see your eyes
lifting their tents. They are blue stones, they begin
to outgrow their moss. You blink in surprise
and I wonder what you can see, my funny kin,
as you trouble my silence. I am a shelter of lies.
Should I learn to speak again, or hopeless in
such sanity will I touch some face I recognize?
Down the hall the baskets start back. My arms
fit you like a sleeve, they hold
catkins of your willows, the wild bee farms
of your nerves, each muscle and fold
of your first days. Your old man's face disarms
the nurses. But the doctors return to scold
me. I speak. It is you my silence harms.
I should have known; I should have told
them something to write down. My voice alarms
my throat. "Name of father-none." I hold
you and name you ******* in my arms.
And now that's that. There is nothing more
that I can say or lose.
Others have traded life before
and could not speak. I tighten to refuse
your owling eyes, my fragile visitor.
I touch your cheeks, like flowers. You bruise
against me. We unlearn. I am a shore
rocking off you. You break from me. I choose
your only way, my small inheritor
and hand you off, trembling the selves we lose.
Go child, who is my sin and nothing more.
4k
4:21am
Tue
Aug 12
<*>
restless is the thinking brain,
rapid repeated beating
from an overheating sun
in a room of full-on dark,
difficult to weep,
harder to silent breathe,
one listens to his arrhythmic heart,
sending out messages incessantly & incomplete
every single sin ever committed
comes in with cheery face,
a greeting of, still here!
in this ,
our temporary final resting place
finish us off by completion,
makes us full of restitution,
by seeing to our undoing,
revolving, unending, the finally of sufficiently
those old curses
we can only face
by turning our faces away,
drop in, like best friends, come to sunrise visit
though dawn is yet eons of minutes far away,
though relief can never be fully attained,
though "though' is the first ****** word of excusal,
though betrayal is always next, the secondarily, refusal,
there is never a dot of period,
only a comma of pause, because,
there is no ending in completion
only in forgiving by your harshest critic,
yourself, yourself, our selving,
this unsolvable function of forgiveness upon this,
this, the two-days of Tuesday,
to day
Aug 12, 2025
Aug 12, 2025 at 4:56 AM UTC
Another gladiator fell
Watering the field in blood.
His head was sheathed,
He never cut through the net
That descended from the stands.
The iron-fisted trident
Brought thumbs up from the spectators
Indulging in the beer and nuts.
There are always some to be sacrificed
To placate the mob in the colosseum
Beneath the night lights on Mondays,
When Coke is the drink of victors,
And jerseys are sold to the trainees
Who now put on their spikes.
These are ours
Running headlong into the arena.
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 9:15 AM UTC
Child, the current of your breath is six days long.
You lie, a small knuckle on my white bed;
lie, ****** like a snail, so small and strong
at my breast. Your lips are animals; you are fed
with love. At first hunger is not wrong.
The nurses nod their caps; you are shepherded
down starch halls with the other unnested throng
in wheeling baskets. You tip like a cup; your head
moving to my touch. You sense the way we belong.
But this is an institution bed.
You will not know me very long.
The doctors are enamel. They want to know
the facts. They guess about the man who left me,
some pendulum soul, going the way men go
and leave you full of child. But our case history
stays blank. All I did was let you grow.
Now we are here for all the ward to see.
They thought I was strange, although
I never spoke a word. I burst empty
of you, letting you learn how the air is so.
The doctors chart the riddle they ask of me
and I turn my head away. I do not know.
Yours is the only face I recognize.
Bone at my bone, you drink my answers in.
Six times a day I prize
your need, the animals of your lips, your skin
growing warm and plump. I see your eyes
lifting their tents. They are blue stones, they begin
to outgrow their moss. You blink in surprise
and I wonder what you can see, my funny kin,
as you trouble my silence. I am a shelter of lies.
Should I learn to speak again, or hopeless in
such sanity will I touch some face I recognize?
Down the hall the baskets start back. My arms
fit you like a sleeve, they hold
catkins of your willows, the wild bee farms
of your nerves, each muscle and fold
of your first days. Your old man's face disarms
the nurses. But the doctors return to scold
me. I speak. It is you my silence harms.
I should have known; I should have told
them something to write down. My voice alarms
my throat. "Name of father-none." I hold
you and name you ******* in my arms.
And now that's that. There is nothing more
that I can say or lose.
Others have traded life before
and could not speak. I tighten to refuse
your owling eyes, my fragile visitor.
I touch your cheeks, like flowers. You bruise
against me. We unlearn. I am a shore
rocking you off. You break from me. I choose
your only way, my small inheritor
and hand you off, trembling the selves we lose.
Go child, who is my sin and nothing more.
3.1k
She sits at the dinner table
Flattened lips
Tightly-fisted hands
Neutral face
She is disgusted
As she lifts the spoon to her mouth
Immediate remorse fills her body as the taste buds get the first feel of the warm food
She is disgusted
As she continues to eat, she can see the food turning into fat traveling to her cheeks
and to her jaw and to her arms and to her shoulders and to her chest and to her stomach
covering the bones that she wants to pierce through her skin
She can see it travel to her thighs, largening in size, making them touch, covering the huge gap that she wants situated in the middle
She is disgusted
She gets paler and paler with every chew and every swallow
And so to escape this torture, she lies and tells her uncle and aunt that her stomach is upset
and she feels sick
But she wasn't lying
Because her stomach was truly upset because it did not want to be filled
It wanted to stay tiny
It wanted to stay beautiful
It wanted to be more beautiful
She goes straight to the bathroom and locks the door
Washes her hands before sticking two fingers down her throat
Removes them once she feels the disgust rising through her esophagus
Closes her eyes as her upset stomach throws away everything unwanted
She is disgusted
She secures the lock in her bedroom
Thinking maybe it will keep the demons away
Or at least long enough for a second of sanity
But they are too gruesomely evil because the disgust that was once in her throat has now traveled to her wrists
She criticizes how her wrist bone isn't showing enough
Disgust travels to her chest
how her ribs aren't piercing enough
Disgust travels to her hips
how her hip bones aren't showing enough
Disgust travels to her thighs
how the space between isn't big enough
Disgust travels to her fingertips
Tension building up in her palms
The demons' silence turn into screams
She gives in
Picks up the knife
and writes an new poem on her body
I
am
disgusted
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 6:37 AM UTC
One autumn day in Providence
I opened up a door,
And entered into a stuffy room
Called "Edgar's Nevermore",
A curio shop with things forbidden,
And things bizarre and perverse,
And obelisks of ancient books
Occult, arcane, and diverse.
I poked around the pint-sized potions,
Inspected a petrified eft,
But made no purchase; and empty handed
The merchant's lair I left.
Returning home, to my surprise,
Like one who'd broken the law,
I found I'd taken a good unpaid for:
A little monkey's paw.
It tightly gripped, with fingers curled,
A flap of baggy sleeve;
And there it stayed, upon my jacket,
When I hung it up at eve.
For many days it didn't move,
And seemed the perfect pet;
But never trust a monkey's paw,
Or this is what you'll get:
I went to bed a drunken evening,
And slept as though I were dead;
And I didn't hear the monkey's paw
As it crept beside my bed,
The monkey's paw that had bided its time,
And waited, still as could be,
To choose this night to strangle it—
My voodoo doll of me!
(Why did I have a voodoo doll
Of me, you ask? Well, I...
Well, let's just say...well...I can't tell you...
I'd blush to tell you why...)
I awoke (with bleary, blurry vision)
To the monkey-fisted grip,
Then died without a single curse
To swear upon my lip.
And in my town I'm still remembered
As that quintessential loner
Who died alone with a mangled throat,
A creepy doll...and a *****
O.O
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 3:13 PM UTC
there's a crazzzy devil
in
the white house
twisting our nation
into a denizens den
a tub of **** in a suit
ascending ***** matter
in
a clogged toilet
a black plague
we have a president with the attention span
of sea clams
an emotional ******* drip of impetuosity
a spiraling fit of rage
a snarling delusional dog
narcissist in a warping mirror
a pathetic complainer
a cyst on the body politic
clot
open sore
seething pustule
piggish **** lover
gangsters dupe
fascist wana be
heil heil
god your a pile
making Russia great again
licking Vlad's *****
protecting your assets no doubt
and hissing tweets
at war with with only everything
and figments of a disturbed imagination
a real windmill killer
his mouth
the devils mark
a yapping compulsive lier
forked tongued fury
possessed to a fault
by the vainglories
of money and ego out of bounds
the biggest and the best
at being
the very worst and a pest
grand royalty of ridicule
*****
a ham ****** cartoon nightmare
and clumsy stumbling bore
a seething volcano of perpetual excrement
reading from the book of chaos
aberrations of enemies
a war room president
at war with his own citizens
huddled in a panic chamber
burns and cuts himself
with his own hot sharp words
as there thrown back at him
a bully getting bullied
a ripper getting ripped
the brains of a lizards eyelid
in a shadeless socket
pulp hearted orangutan
menace to society
his mottled soul
like a black sun
on the verge
of a black hole
a hell mill of decrepitude
a dark creep creeping
tarnishing our beautiful country
lights dim
America
there's a devil
in the white house
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 5:00 PM UTC
Expression guarded
Hate hidden
Hands ******
Nails digging in
Heart made of stone
Breaking in two
Insides churning
Head hurting
Emotions wild
I'm an angered child
Tension crackles
Full on tackle
Curled in a ball
Why can't I stand tall?
It's stupid
I'm weak
Truth is a disgusting alibi
*Expression guarded.
Hate hidden.*
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 7:03 AM UTC
sweeps across the floor
like the hem of a rag
on a doll-faced *****
as the lights are dimmed
in this picket-fenced Attica.
To him, the raindrops taste like whiskey
so who's to blame him
for being a drunkard?
He will not take such condescension,
and so he shall pass it onto you
like a hot potato;
just say the third-degree burns
came from hugging the stove.
For you, life is not a Lifetime movie
looking at your bruises in the mirror
to a Celine Dion power ballad;
the days are a beach of intenstines
set alongside waves of toxic waste,
the moon now a mood ring
sitting atop the knuckles
of your vengeful king.
This decade of brutal purging,
atonement for sins not yet committed,
has felt as consuming
as his figure those Thursday nights
when he's stalking for his property,
and you're close-mouthed
under the bed,
looking through barely a slab
of this virtual reality,
at the iron-fisted giant
who would nurse your neuroses
if he'd stop bashing your face in.
Your expectations for the outcome
laced with Disney Princess satin
arrange themselves in a cross-legged noose
(the "O" stands for optimism),
for all this atonement
must be the beaten path
to the Garden of Eden.
You should just remember.
The men still pulled the lever,
licking the flames
as Joan of Arc sang her finale.
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:55 AM UTC
The truth lies in the dirt
Feathers sifting brown flour
Sunlight prisms dancing
And I let you
New green, her ritual comforts
While I lie contorted beneath you
The scent of wet soil
And I let you
The ****** bud reclaims her power
Rhythmic earth turn, turn
Spring, thy mirror of veracity
And I let you
Blinded by a heart grown
Veiled in misty mornings
The great lie, just out of sight
And I let you
Out of a hard rain now
No death by my hand
Nature continues her march
And I let you
Go
Apr 10, 2021
Apr 10, 2021 at 12:45 AM UTC
Oh so I guess it was infected
On so many levels
Probably my fault for loving
an angel ****** Scorpio
who gives ******** like a greasy exhaust pipe
who swaps ****** fluid
like a last ditch transfusion for a cure
done in an ally in Mexico
I thought you could save me with your shameless passion
The vibrating underwear at dinner
The dare to straight face in public
You were *****
And you were *****
And I was trying to make a mess
So cleaning myself up might look drastic
You were an adventure I can’t shake
The kind of adventure you can’t catch twice
Until you catch it twice
I have been told
Learning is a change in behavior
Learning is finding ways to not make the same mistake
Over
And over
Clearly
I am still learning
Still infected with
With the self-inflicted wrong decisions
Of loving people who don’t love me back
And filling holes
With the parts of myself that are designed to do that
Hoping mine will be filled too
I’ve put a pillow in my open chest wound
So you might still think it’s safe to lay there
So you won’t hear the heartbeat race of hope
That things won’t hurt so much later
Won’t feel like a film on my skin that doesn’t wash away
When I watch you leave me in the morning
And all I want to do is beg you to stay
Stay and pretend this is real a little longer
I’ve never been one to tear band-aids from wounds quickly
I pick scabs
I have scars
I am ugly
And I am still learning
Still trying different ways
To love healthy
So yeah,
I guess this is infected
Apr 20, 2012
Apr 20, 2012 at 5:25 PM UTC
Here in Holden I forget all the memories acquired in sun
They all tumble and I could stop it if I wanted to stop
Pouring ***** in my head as a song before bed
Two-fisted whiskey drinker caught in the present,
Displaced in time. And another and another til
she upgrades to doubles at no extra charge cause
she loves how my face 'round means she's safe at least
til I leave and she's sweet and pays me in drinks I
don't need as bad as money and a stable place.
Here in Holden B-Block I play games with my memories
I tumble hard and I could stop it if I wanted to stop
Too fun to open a door and fall through the floor
to the blackness of past as you stand from your stool
to play pool in the back as you can't keep your cool
so you retreat. Always retreat.
Here in Holden, underground, I **** on the memories
I made under sun now
bathed only in krypton light
scaring cats from the cans
behind the brush as I
rush to get it all out.
Spit it all.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 3:51 PM UTC
One of Edna's "randyhornbag" collection of erotica.
i am a ******* *****
and that's not a metaphor
it's the total ******* truth
i'm a ********** forsooth
it's what i do for work
i'll **** or **** or ****
off any man or beast
i don't care in the least
young boys old men fat freaks
i get them all most weeks
i'll have any kind of ***
cash only and no cheques
i suppose you think it's funny
to **** fat men for money
to have countless alien *****
often stinking like old socks
shoved up my pretty *****
kept artificially juicy
to make the fools imagine
i'm oozing jissom for them
it's not the best of jobs
******* total strangers' knobs
pretending to like vile men
when if i could i'd flay them
i rarely **** for pleasure
i no longer have the measure
of love and tender feeling
of kisses phlegm congealing
my private sexlife's twisted
i love being thrashed and ******
i crave darkest degradation
masochistic ************
so if you think it's funny
******** men for money
let me be quite blunt
if you think so you're a ****
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 10:56 AM UTC
Balanced at the gravel margin
of the road, veiled in grey and blue,
his hands are ****** loose around
the bicycle’s white handlebars
in equipoise below his beard’s
feathered fringe. His threadbare jeans
ride up and down at the knees
with the turning of the pedals,
effortless as air. He shows the world
a look of grave surprise, it seems to me -
presents it to a land that never was his own,
but one that he is only passing through.
Roadside cottonwoods and maples
shield him from the skimming sun,
and overhead a skein of Canadian geese
call and call.
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 9:17 PM UTC
A dark hallway at the end a door with light underneath.
Better men say Open it.
Better men, better inside.
Worse men say Wait, but open it.
Inside find axes and crows.
Everything a way to strip bare.
Better men leave them in sight.
Worse place them away.
Morning leaves no light to claim.
Sorrow comes, disappointment after a farewell of arms.
Soldiers lost in a cause reach for weapons not there.
They run, bare-fisted, unsure if a path of survival.
They chase sorrow into night.
Some come upon forest, become muffled from sight.
Others reach lake, creating in its depths.
Many run into prairie, where all is empty.
Better men say *Run before morning.
Safer to flee under dimness of stars.*
Worse men say Wait until sunshine.
In dawn's hands strip what remains to nothing.
Worse men feel they are not worse men.
Better men say I am worse man.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 6:47 AM UTC
human revelations in our sleep poses
she sleeps with both arms back, murmuring,
flung over her hearing head,
as if she is surrendering
nightly
me slip away for a few, only to find
her left hand ****** by her arm crook'd,
fit to her temple, as if to bear the weighty weight
of a heavy head plein des thoughts, dream-mares, tales and talks,
too dense to contemplate
without assistance,
armed support to hold on, hold up,
fighting/ accepting as a unwanted outcomes
or retrying old misdeeds
(no, no, oops, that’s me)
stirring,
she swift motions/crisscrosses her arms into an X,
a human parts tiara atop, on blond tresses, that fully messes
any remaining daytime efforts and her nighttime wild dancing^
no one reveals me,
none inform on me what positions
my containership adapts, adopts when my woke-guards
are dismissed/released and
lay unprepared to disguise my innermosts exposures
ow, early am resting comfortable with a six poem-pack of
slept hours on my tool belt,
so far this weekend one shot fired before the day officially
is belle rung and these poses thoughts
are upon what my eyes alight
can’t decide if knowing how I dance in the bed at night,
reflationary, deflationary, worth fact facing,
for this is no secret
*my sleep hours are colored,
admixture of moving pictures,
punctuated with
stills of past and future,
the poses
of how to greet, were greeted,
withstood upheld ran from wept, murdered,
faced up, faced down, go unrecorded
and the
poems residuals
and the
poem prophesying-
both!
fearful confessions for acts
committed and foretold*
Decision: I don’t want to know
May 26, 2018
May 26, 2018 at 12:35 PM UTC
Pack it up, pack it in
don't throw my bolts there creating a din.
I won't ever battle you, that would be a sin.
Never will I stack up,
cos you just knocked me down again.
Trying to act higher,
with you and your godly crew.
But I'm the lord of the dead,
come on get your tombs up,
I raise the dead, can I have some hands up.
I have two minions, no there not yellow.
Pain is his name.
Getting splinters in your **** cheek,
stubbing your toe once again,
jump around, jump around
his confusion will get you down.
Then we panic,
who likes a bit of disco.
But he'll move your keys
just so you jump around, jump around
lateness is his merry go round.
I'll serve you up on the river of sticks,
If your coins ain't legit,
Throwing your cheap **** off the boat.
You get a special place for being tight-fisted ..
I've got more schemes, than any other villain,
copyrighted some cos others trying to steal um..
Tried to get Hercules on my side, but he was a
goody, goody, with piercing blue eyes..
I tried to ride his horse but it threw me off,
Slightly embarrassed by blue hair went off..
Yes I 'm bald and I wear a flaming blue wig,
but I'm a millennia old, and no sunlight down here.
You think Zeus locks are real,
More like Clouds that with a deceitful blow,
have his head looking like a shiny chrome dome .
My name is Hades and I'm king of the underworld,
I'll never rise to the top,
But I'll see you on the other side, enjoy it up top.
Apr 19, 2020
Apr 19, 2020 at 8:35 AM UTC
Look into my crimson eyes, they despise the suns glare,
they prove I am not human, and certainly not mere.
My teeth are as sharp as daggers and as white as an albino,
their unrelenting force is not to be matched by anything less than a rhino.
And speaking of force I have one unmatched,
t'is the sheer power and might of my **** thrusting thine ***
If such a force could be measured it would be dubbed unstable,
last time I got it on I shattered a table.
Its sheer size would frighten most men,
but my father and uncle... they could fend off about ten.
I tried it one night with my brother in song.
His body was moist and his tongue was so long.
I slipped my sweaty hands through his crack,
and as time progressed I started fondling my sack.
I ****** him hard and broke through his ******
i'm getting ready to show this guy my full spectrum.
As we continued our adventure I felt something sublime,
I tried to pull it, but it felt like I was wasting my time.
But then it happened, I pulled with zeal,
and what hit the floor made me hunger for a meal.
T'was his prostate it felt ever so soft,
I ********** on it and licked it all off.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 7:55 AM UTC
Compliments
Never be tight-fisted in dispensing them, for as trivial as they seem, they could mean a world of difference to the other person
It could save that waiter from quitting his job
It could save that homeless man from becoming a criminal element
It could save that relationship from the brink of falling apart
Never be selfish in handing compliments, for you lose nothing
Because there will be days where you're going to need it
Because one day, it will make a difference in your life—one day, it will save you
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 12:06 PM UTC
A broken mirror, a ****** fist.
My razor against my wrist.
A shattered heart, a wounded soul.
My tears rolling down my flesh.
Blood running from the depth.
I'm not the kind you'll care to miss.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 11:00 PM UTC
Bubbling up inside me
Fizzy cola
Beach breeze
One hand on my knee
The other dangling a cigarette
Lost traveler
No home
Will you stay here with me
I'd like eternity
But one night will do
Free of charge
Except my sanity
And while you're at it
Leave a tip
The broken ends of what I was
Warm bubbles
Champagne lover
Twirling and twirling under the unforgiving stars
Better than my favorite dream
But how quickly, my dear,
Dreams become nightmares
Broken glass
Echoing screams
Twirling and twirling
Come and rest with me
Leave your bags
I've always got room
For maybe one more
But this one is the right one
I know it for sure
Pure white underwear
The darkest intentions
And dusty sheets
And a brown eyed boy
With a passion for nothing in the world
Except a ****** drink
And me
Or so I tell myself
As I lie awake and listen to the sound of his breathing
Warm body
Greedy hands
Fizzy cola
Fizzy cola
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC