Hello Pop,
You said you liked a good story.
I'm no good at tellen stories, coz you were always the one that told'em and I was always the one that listened but,
I got one now.

Not a nice one.
None'a that feel good **** you see on TV.
But, it's a story
and I owe you one.

It's about you,
the bits you missed,
and me:
the not so good for a so called 'good kid'.
Not that many called me that
But,
then you went and did.

Made me think I couldn't be so bad.

Yet here I am.

Throwin stone's when I've got no one to hit.
Too bored to eat or sleep, just fucken spit.
Wishen that great god gave me someone to hit.

I'm a sick girl, ya know.
That's what they tell me.

Sick compared to those straight kids -
the pride of Glory Spring.
"Glory to God!" they all fucken sing
and even me who can’t speak good
can still recite that invisible,
unbearable
ditsy
dimpled
****.
He was your favourite story and everyone elses, after all.
Vicar Roy made sure of that.

Vicar Roy.
With his crinkly eyes
his toothy grin
the way he wouldn't blink when you challenged him.
God while god was hiding from the mess he made,
but God was doin’ nothen for me.
Ma saw that before you could.
She wanted me out,
She wanted me taken to a real city so they could study my head,
the way it worked.
The way my words never came
just a crooked grin.
But, even when the crayons became weapons
and the kittens went missen
The Vicar went and blessed me the same way.

Glory Spring, with its neat little rows of cottages and cabbage gardens,
so evenly cut.
Soft colours,
bright greens.
So good,
good,
good.
Then I came along.
Rabid,
urban wild
itchen for a stomach slit
goin' "Guts for you"
after "Treat or trick?"
setten haystacks on fire
tryen to find the pin
only to drop it on purpose.

Are you scared of me, Pa?
I think even God is scared of what he created.
That's why we never see him,
but I'm here now Pa.
You can't hide from me
and I gotta story of why you don't gotta no more.

I really dont know what to say
Whatever, i never do.
But you, know, its kind of funny how
I always muddle through.
I really can't express myself
It would never rhyme.
But, you know, its kind of funny how
i usually do fine.
I have this love relationship,
with everyone,
with life.
I have this hate relationship,
it always pays a price.
You know, humans are weird
we take pride in being smart.
But really how smart are we?
We can never do our part.
We can never shut our mouths,
we make people cry,
we make life miserable,
we can't even guide the blind.
You know, people are crazy,
I'm not sure i like them.
You know, what if we were extinct?
What if you and your most loved were left?
Not your family, but the opposite ***
maybe even your best friend, its up to you.
Wouldnt it be so great?
I would raid all the stores,
I would go to Africa,
see in the bad the glore.
Everything depends on money,
im sorry if you dont have it
i really truely am,
because that is definitly tradject.
I'm sorry this poem is terrible,
it doesnt really rhyme
i want to get some thoughts down,
if its incoherant, fine.
It's funny how we love,
because they never love us back
its funny how we trust
then realize theyre bad.
If you understand this,
if you even read this far,
like if you agree-
but you probably wont.
Because thats just how life works,
but ill stick my ******* up
***** everyone
im fine.

are drugs lips? wit. harem. ember in glore

a red rug slips with a remembering lore.

The majority of mine lxiii years
expended delving deep into imagination,
yours truly escaped, loosed, thwarted...
reality courtesy bookland
roaming cerebral cortex terra firmae
did not amp pulley satiate
seemingly depression found me
(an uncompetitive, oversensitive,
intuitive, contemplative bookworm)
with scrunched pate,
a day short and a dollar late

one dime a dozen lad
hood scrimp and scrape,
a familiar pattern typified fate
viz - hand to mouth bleak
how zing existence aye equate
extant throughout three score
plus three years date
journeys round el sol,
this varsity schlepper, procrastinator,
malingerer did create
current emotional state
mottled with sea henna tint
financial, emotional and

psychosocial characteristics stint
aye serum eyes while
in utero the blueprint
indelibly etched analogous
brand York Peppermint
also analogous to musician
recording tracks upon primed glint
ting digitized compact disc
clear polycarbonate plastic substrate,
a reflective metallic layer,
and a clear protective coating
of acrylic plastic
breakable as flint.
  
Though afflicted with severe
panic/anxiety attacks
suffering became manifest destiny
for decades housed née sequestered
in abominable barracks
(one common joe biden his time)
made debut during prepubescence,
ambivalent toward and quite lax
concerning mien kampf,
when adolescent/puberty at max

metamorphosis from boy
to man found me strongly in pax
averse to growing up
Anorexia Nervosa latched did tax
developmental height and weight,
whence this grown male did wax
nostalgic for his boyhood-
literally starved himself -
not quite to death,
or unconditional self-acceptance by peers.

Mine psyche felt ship
wrecked upon the jagged shoal
of abject apathy, self-injury,
and jury-rigged penury now a pall
duh, these psychological idiosyncrasies
perfect breeding ground to maul
and rent asunder psychic ground
for lack of pride slinking along hall
ways resonating with flapping wings,
his doppelganger exhibited gall
wherein yours truly remained
face down from a major fall
when both parents alive
(thine mum deceased
almost eighteen plus years,

when grim reaper didst call
now octogenarian widower pop,
who since this initial writing
passed away about
sixteen months ago)
espied sense to bawl
upon death ova
me mum, and sensibility
evinced inquisitive kindled
linked opportunistic quest
misunderstanding, avoiding
whirled wide web
as a young whippersnapper -
wait, that iz not awl.

Inform me if you wanna explore
additional tidbits glore
cuz long poem comprises more
lines offering metaphorical tour
within me body electric
akin to teenage wasteland
after internal near deadly war.