"insulin" poems
I wake up and eat some eggs, a yogurt, and a few slices of melon
in an attempt to change my life
after all it is that or death
I won't hold my breath
It's a beautiful day to head to the mall
with a friend
I really know where this is going
Hmm
I like that shirt
Oops, this store doesn't offer plus size
On to the next..
I really like these jeans..
Forty five dollars for sizes sixteen and up
What a mess!
Since I refuse to let Lane Bryant **** my wallet in the ***
I decide to head to Barnes and Noble instead
I accidentally bumped into a lady and her baby stroller as I walked past and she mumbled
"Fat ***** under her breath
Yes that's what she said
I didn't even turn my head
Because that's what the lady said
and that's what society says
and instead of trying to explain it's just
easier to walk away
it's the self hatred after I dread
So I buy a whole pizza and eat the entire ******* thing
and it is beyond delicious
though the guilt I feel afterwards wasn't worth it
and vomitting that **** up was viscous
Even when I was a little girl I dreamed of being thin
I dreamed of being a model
I dreamed of having a flat tummy
Just to fit in
I didn't like the belly I had
or the fat in my cheeks
I was the only kid in gym that could never climb the rope
and that began a string of anxiety attacks
that would last for weeks
The doctor calls it insulin resistance
which leaves me with the inability to lose weight
but I shouldn't have to explain to anyone my condition
I just shouldn't have to explain
not to mention the ovarian disease that cripples me to my knees
which so happens to be genetic
and mimics the blood of a diabetic
leaving me incurable
a medical mystery
not to mention infertility
so for me
children are just a dream
Although I tell myself
that I am beautiful
and that I am intelligent
and that I am funny
and that I am a hard worker
and that I am successful
and that I am caring
and that I am loving
and that I am daring
and that I am the best **** friend a person could ever have
To a stranger I'm just a "fat *****
and you know what?
That makes me really ******* sad
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 9:10 PM UTC
She was like a banana.
The best part of her was on the inside.
The amount of insulin I'd need trying to devour her whole.
God knows how much I love the thought of that.
The effect she'd have on me.
Each time I'd see her I'd unravel her piece by piece until all of her shown like never before.
The only problem was I was allergic to bananas.
Although her smell was intoxicating.
One taste of her and my throat would instantly swell.
Though I wouldn't prefer anything artificial.
I wanted the real thing.
When I revealed all of this to her she just laughed.
She laughed her *** off as a matter of fact.
Rocking back and forth.
Her little brown shoes clicking together.
Her yellow skin now a bit red.
Her freckles now in full view.
When I asked why she laughed she said its quite alright.
Most people I've met speak so highly of themselves.
Your the first person to admit you correctly know how to open a banana.
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 8:27 PM UTC
Albert had an ARTHRITIC knee
which gave him curry
The core of a BOIL is oft hard
to extract
Yesterday June experienced
a server stomach CRAMP
Too much dry weather
can cause the outer DERMAL layer to peel
Never read in a poorly lit room
for you'll have EYE strain
After eating spicy pickles
dad had bad FLATULENCE
Some twenty eight years ago
my friend Helen had her GALLBLADDER removed
They say that a glass of water
will stop HICCUPS
From end to end
our INTESTINAL tract is thirty foot long
On Sunday afternoon John
broke his JAW playing football
Some people have
very boney KNUCKLES
One of my work colleagues
is prone to getting LARYNGITIS
Colin suffers terribly
with MIGRAINE headaches
Sometimes people tend
to endlessly NAVAL gaze
A woman's OVARIES need to be checked
on a regular basis for any abnormalities
The PANCREAS secrets a hormone
known as insulin
QUININE once was extensively used
in the treatment of Malaria
Since my sister has put on weight
she cannot find her RIBS
The STIRRUP bone lies
within one's ear
Dan Aykroyd the famous comic star
has webbed TOES
Should you bump your ULNA bone
it may give you reason to groan
The VARICOSE VEINS is great aunt Ruby's legs
were very pronounced
Does anyone know of a good remedy
for unsightly WARTS
At our local hospital
we have an antiquated X-RAY machine
As tiredness and weariness sets in
one YAWNS quite a lot
****** ZOSTER can make
a person constantly itch
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 1:31 AM UTC
Filaments fixed on your eyes all night
and the possibility of a chance, of an opportunity,
that I’ll be able to talk to you,
because the club lights are blue
stretched like animal hide across your own hide:
complexion clear cheeks still rouged
though tidal club glow is still blue.
It’s pathetic, worse than any diabetic
with their HumaPen Memoir insulin
length of pen, recording the time
and date
and precise amount of pain
they inject from the last 16 doses.
My pen is my keyboard and records
miserable times
and forgotten dates in cafes
and precise amounts of pain,
though this diabetic is a pathetic poet
and he knows it.
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 2:49 PM UTC
Calories.
When I was 6 years old,
my mother told me I would consume
too many calories.
I would consume them by the hundreds,
by the thousands.
I was Godzilla and they were the people I dominated.
When my parents left one another
I had to fill myself with some other source of affection.
And the insulin rushes were tremendous.
When I was 11,
I had to see the doctor to be in fear of getting Diabetes,
and being grossly overweight.
At at age of 15, I was over 280 pounds
of walking disappointments.
I had always believed my stomach carried my happiness
and the fat under my chin kept my head high.
But after being rejected for so long,
I snapped.
I always had an attachment to food,
a sort of inseperable bond.
But I remember looking at myself in the mirror one night,
completely disgusted, tears welling in my eyes,
and I puked from the anger I felt inside of me.
So don't tell me the calories I consume today
don't burn more
than the bleach Amanda Todd drank,
or that the more hollow my stomach becomes,
I am not able to better hide my sorrows.
Do not dare tell me eat something,
because I've craved biting the bullet for the past 8
******* years, and carbohydrates
has caused more sadness in my heart than anything else.
Do not tell me other teenagers do not cut open their arms,
to let calories out,
because they are scared to Christ that someone may judge them,
if they eat an apple.
Because the first woman that ate an apple, ****** humankind.
And by having a sip of your Iced Tea,
or a french fry, might just dissolve the earth from beneath us.
Why we hide from nutrition labels,
and run from anything with a number greater than
ZERO
on it.
I was taught that happiness comes from a nutrition label,
and how many servings one consumes,
not the smile on ones face,
or the good in one's heart.
Calories have ruined my life,
and I will never forgive any nutrition label for that.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 2:57 AM UTC
She's got her eyes on her hand holding somebody else's
and she's got tiny planets stuck on her tongue
She doesn't understand how nice his hands felt covering hers,
how it reminded her of cotton fields
Funny how he has cotton candy smiles to match everything else about him
He makes her want to shed her skin twenty times
until she's clean enough to touch
But he also makes her want to grab a syringe
and inject some insulin into her bloodstream—
The whole thought of him frightened her to catatonic
and she knew her diabetic heart cannot handle such sweetness
She wants so much to let go of his hand
but he would smile and he would laugh and he would be
heavenly
and she would hate herself for ruining this
So she watches on at her hand holding somebody else's
and grit her teeth to the tiny planets exploding in her mouth
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 6:50 PM UTC
Early.
I became the bottom of a shoe. Worthless, unwarranted, but there, needed.
Rubber and worn, worn away to the thinnest part, and still used.
Hands became words, and hugs became extinct, tears became invisible, the 'childhood' was erased.
Diabetes became my mother, known as rejection, and depression, her twin, known as rage.
Insulin and Fluoxetine became my equally demanding toddlers; I was feeding a family of 6 at the age of 8.
Later.
I watched my brother become a tortured child, in his sleep - the sound of his waterproof sheets would keep me awake, as i lay worried that his screams were words he could not utter at his age.
I watched my sister grow cold as she watch her house burning down around her, and crying tears at the loss of her childhood, her eyes burned at me.
As i looked in the mirror, when i cried, i would flush the toilet just to hear what it feels like to be washed away.
Disappeared down the drain.
I shrunk 4 inches in 4 years, one inch for each bottle of poison, that said 'drink me'.
I shrunk 4 inches in another 4 years for every word that said 'eat me'.
I shrunk so that I could not grow, up.
Later still.
I became broken, hard to 'fix'.
I became lost, without a cause.
I became the rebel, odd-one-out.
Family grew fractured, broken mirrors lay on all our floors, that we skirted around, lest we should bled it all out, what had happened.
Relationships broke, one after another, after, another, after, another, after....
Faces lost feeling, words became laws, feelings became problems, love became, raw and unused.
We dissipated, dissolved, into a million pieces of broken, into the world, held together by very thin words of 'family'
Now.
I am not a child anymore.
It's time to be heard.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 7:01 PM UTC
Sugar level on high
Cronenberged my body
I’m so sorry my little frail body
I betrayed you like the *** I don’t get
Pretty soon I’ll fix you back with levels in tact
No more on your *** and you better work it fast
Feet tingling and sleepy every time
Didn’t mean to get sick
I got enough time to get better
Farewell youthful age into changing leafs
it’s a way for growing old
I fell against pastel spilling colors and it took me out of my grey zone
Don’t let my face amputate so forget it
I’ll be cured
sugar level are you high?
taking in so much insulin
glucose isn’t good for toast
I don’t want to get needles in my behind
rather get myself tapped with hands
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 8:39 AM UTC
I'm an ugly person
for the way that I think.
The things I say under my breath.
Wrapped in grubby chains of envy
at all who walk past.
and I do mean all.
I'm angry because I'm not as good
as everyone else,
not as pretty.
I'm angry because beauty is granted to everyone
and those with disabilities.
I often think this girl is pretty,
but the only reason she has a modeling contract
and has this fame
is because she lost an arm
was bullied
showed her insulin pump in her photo
has a disease
or is deformed.
girls who look worse than me
praised like Gods for their beauty
because they have something wrong with them.
I'm jealous of that.
I fantasize often about my grand sad story,
jumping in front of a bullet, attacked,
cancer, loss of limb etc etc
I want their awful story
just so people will like me
and think I'm pretty.
It's disgusting.
Their life is hard
and they are brave
but I think it's unfair
and I'm still jealous.
They get praise and treated like royalty
because they're sick.
beautiful and sick is beautiful.
ugly and sick is beautiful.
beautiful and normal is beautiful.
ugly and normal is nothing.
ugly is ugly.
and even as I recognize my disgusting thoughts,
they're still there.
brooding and boiling
in a *** of green slimy jealousy,
jealous because they're lucky
and blessed and fortunate.
I'm ugly because I'm jealous.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC
*Depression has become an insulin injection
A necessary evil
Only required because I have been underneath it's moon so long
Any other tide pull would surely drown me in confusion*
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 2:31 PM UTC
You signal with your eyes, permission. It’s a look that twists my heart. My epinephrine increases, inhibits insulin secretion and my blood glucose rises. Hands roam mountains and valleys. Hips become handles. We scatter clothes across the room. Our thoughts are scattered. Down isn’t the floor, it’s the opposite of high. My breath is caught between my lungs and your tongue, darting across mine. Pain flirts with pleasure. Whoever said lips taste like strawberries is wrong. They taste much better than that.
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 9:43 PM UTC
You are the
liquid sugar
I rub into
my skin
soaked
through to my
pores so
deep within
on a cellular
level as I
gulp it down
swish in saliva
in liquid love
sounds
washed through
my system
in textured
spin
you balance
out the thickness
of my insulin
you
pique
hot
energies
into blush-fused
crush
swirling
endorphins
and hormones
in maelstrom rush
my cheeks
on fire,
ripe fruits
drip
juice
I must
breathe
in staccato
to control
this
sluice
But when I
get peak-high
and then
slope
so
low
you harmonize
the taut,
slick pull
of my
undertow flow
It's just a matter
of a few
words, syll-a-
bles spoken
velvet-voiced
cool
smooths
the rough
of my
broken
So please
inject it,
fresh
into the river
of my blood
Bring it over,
hot sugar,
before I
surge
into
flood
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 2:42 PM UTC
your lips burn my heart like acid
to ashes
still i want to be burn
until nothing leftovers of me.
your bites are venomous like the snakes
that my body beg to inject
like insulin for a diabetic patient
your body is like death bed
decorated with red roses
that i want to die every day.
Feb 2, 2018
Feb 2, 2018 at 8:46 AM UTC
"Gone to one’s Glory" so they say.
Where exactly is it that, if we’re all headed that way?
Let ’s ask around to see where and what people think Glory will be.
It might be one place for you and another for me.
Some people, view Glory as a place out beyond the blue, with pearly gates.
They imagine it will be like walking into a magical, nirvana escape.
"I am a restricted diabetic who must pass up the desserts that I like.
Glory for me would be a place like Food Network where I can indulge and delight, and never worry about an insulin spike"
"As an athlete who loves to train my body to the highest level of fitness
Glory for me would be a place of perpetual summer Olympics."
"I am an obese lady with a hundred pounds to lose.
Glory for me would be a place that receives all, even those as big as a caboose."
"As an amputee who lives with stumps
Glory for me would be a place where you get new legs, to run like Forrest Gump."
Winfrey, Bezos, Buffett, and Gates?
Have you discovered Glory here on earth?
"For me, an astronaut, who loves to travel in outer space
I would find Glory to be a place to encounter those outside of the human race."
Glory might not be as far away as some make it seem; we may be shocked!
Glory may be another town, another neighborhood or just around the block.
When ones we love go to their glory we moan and we grieve
But what if we’ve got it all wrong like most other things we believe?
Going to one’s Glory might just mean going on to achieving one's highest dreams
The ancestors described what they thought glory would be
Using their highest imaginations and creativity.
For us It may be imperative and the right time to change that old narrative
Glory might be one place for you and another place for me
In the meantime, in this life, let’s stay present, and be all that we can be.
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 9:15 PM UTC
She looked at a distance before she sighed, thinking about all the good and bad that we had once both shared.
There's no one quite like you; fun, loud, ambitious, aggressive and toxic.
You hated quietness surrounding you, preferred to be occupied with loud and fun people, the kind that is filled with energy that buzzed your brain cells almost to death.
You hated slow people; those who take time to absorb whatever that is happening into their brains. You loved the speed, the thrill of those events and mostly, you loved those adrenaline rush in your blood stream, those kind that leave you wanting for more.
And you hated those reserved people. You never liked probing but you use your aggressive method to inevitably force people out of their shells. You said sharing was caring, at least, it was caring to you.
I wasn't quite like you.
I was all the things you hated; quiet, slow and introverted.
Yet I was that little difference you've never quite seen, or I might as well say, I'm a lab rodent to you.
I was what you were experimenting on, and after all the fun you had, you'd throw me alone and away, just like what you'd done to the others.
You'll never see this little piece of collection here and if you do, you probably wouldn't know it's you.
You're a surge of toxic, like how diabetic patients needed a syringe of insulin after every meal.
You kept injecting power over my life, day after day. Making me feel weak and inferior whenever I'm with you.
One moment you made me felt like I'm important to you and next, you were having fun out there with people whom I barely know.
Everyone you met and became close to, was a splitting image of you except they didn't know. And I was the failed rodent, who never once got any of your toxic into my character yet I was intoxicated.
This poison never fades; it keeps circulating in my blood, attacking my brain.
Every step of moving on was a pull away from you and a push towards another.
And each pull towards someone reminds me of how much I am respected by others and the right way of me being treated.
But I will and am missing you right now.
Not for your toxic and negativity but for the smiles and bubble my heart always felt whenever I was with you.
The daily memories made even when there were fights all along.
My dearest friend, I hope you'll meet someone who'll be ale to help you more than I can, I hope she turns your toxic into safety.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 1:56 AM UTC
What I should have said
when Mike Whittle died, was
what a mighty man he was,
though small in stature,
yeah, how he set the students’
minds on fire.
Instead I said
he always jabbed himself with insulin
while we were having lunch
and I said that this was a literary tradition
like Polonius being stabbed in the arras
and Mark Antony falling on his sword after Actium
before Octavian could get there ahead of him.
And then I said that Antony's lover Cleopatra died
when she arranged to be bitten on her ***** by an asp.
And I thought I was a smart *** by saying
don’t get confused and think she was bitten on her asp.
Well, Mike and I did laugh about literary allusions,
along with all that insulin and his pancreas,
during all of those immortal lunches.
But what I should have said was that students
worshiped him, and they said that
‘he gave me my love of learning’.
Mike, you mighty little giant.
And how I loved that you could laugh when the admin staff
tried to cut you down because they hate popularity so much.
Those blasts of laughter in your classes
frightened them and they thought you were
an iconoclast. Oh Mike. I love you, just like all your students.
That's what I should have said about
the gifts you gave us all in
Learn, Love and Laughter 101.
This is your immortal epitaph.
Mike T Minehan
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
Let’s dig deep into that topic no one wants to speak of.
At the end of this discussion let’s see who will show me love.
Here comes the blacks, the hoodlums, and the thugs.
The scums of this earth the rodents, and the bugs.
Always on the street corner selling them drugs.
They look at me like I’m a criminal lower than the minimum.
Keeping me stuck in my ways for days to years.
I go to work and come home look at my wage with tears.
There’s no way i’m getting out of here.
I’m not going to fall, I stand tall and never fear.
Even in my darkest days i’m never scared.
So, let them stare, I’ll shrug my shoulders like I don’t care.
I can face any battles I’m well prepared.
But why must I explain myself!
I am a citizen, with a good behavior, and well disciplined.
I went school and graduated, education is my insulin.
Things happen in life back when I had a mission then.
Now, I’m just one out of many men.
Who gets abused, misused, by my own American rules.
Where is this freedom? Let Me Be!
Like there’s no one else left but me.
We are the same, the skin is where you don’t agree.
My complexion is the only way you notice me.
So I don’t need a name, your target is aimed.
The feeling is mutual but it wasn’t always the same.
Jun 3, 2019
Jun 3, 2019 at 1:13 PM UTC
Paul, he likes his lighters and his spoon
“Taste that kerosene.” he offers
‘Nah, I’m cool.’
There are people running naked in the street
This one girl, she slipped
Her blood becoming a perfect illustration of a fractal as it mixed with the rain water
Snaking through the leaves
Trickling to the gutter
On its way to the sea
Lucky blood
I wish it was me
I hold the syringe up to the light
Double checking I got it right
And I wonder, in this moment, what you would think of me?
“So then” Paul slides down the wall to the floor
Legs spread in a V, he winks at me
Like a drunken ********** offering more
“What’s your poison?”
****** But don’t get excited Paul, that’s not what I’m here for.’
I expose his skin, and let the needle sink in
“You used to be such a good girl. Goody goody.”
He laughs from his spot on the floor
“Goody; such a weird word. But that’s what you were.”
I recap the needle, carefully now
"What happened to you, Goody? What?” He twitches and slides down more
‘The hospital would be more suited for you, ya know.'
I pack up his insulin, store it back in the fridge.
‘Okay Paul. I’ll be back in the morning. Try not to OD again.’
“Goody Goody.” He laughs up at me from his spot on the floor.
“Goody Goody, that’s what you were.”
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 1:31 AM UTC
Magnetic
We needed each other
Electric
A passion I will never forget
Carrying on with your absence is hectic
But it turns out you're too sweet and I'm a diabetic.
Jun 28, 2017
Jun 28, 2017 at 10:57 AM UTC
I am from jumping from school to school, making new friends and trying to keep old
From long car rides on deserted streets late at night, through rain and snow, words coming through the speakers nice and low
From a big family that always talks and chatters, laughing and making jokes that no one else can say
I am from state fairs that tempt you with sweet food and amazing memories forever in your thoughts
From camps where I learn to write like my brain is on fire and how I am ‘normal’ even with my condition
From shots of insulin, needles piercing my skin and blood sugar tests ten times a day, wearing my calluses with pride
I am from colors filling the pages as my hands move quickly across the paper, making outlines and shadows, filling whats left with color
From writing like crazy, my mind never stopping with the ideas that flood it daily
From writers calluses and the pounding of keys as I try to get my ideas down before they leave
I am from not being athletic, but still being active, running and letting myself be free
From my feet hitting the ground, my legs aching as I just run my heart out
From crossing the finish line with a smile on my face and a finish in my heart
I am from church full of people who love me like their own and help me with my faith
From a community that helps me learn more and help move others
From a group of people that wants me to be my best and is a second family to me
I am from a family of many, who are all so diverse
From my parents who couldn’t be more different and my siblings who I couldn’t love more
From my nephew who already is just like his auntie Jess
I am from a group of close knit friends who are more like family
From friends who constantly tease me for the little things I do
From family who may not be related but still loves me the same
I am from relatives and friends who live close and far
From some I only talk to when I must, and others I talk to everyday
But, I am especially from people who love and care for me
Sep 29, 2012
Sep 29, 2012 at 4:25 PM UTC
There will come a day,
probably a Tuesday,
you'll be hoeing and
yanking yellow weeds
by the handful, the
sun in the center of
the sky; Or you'll
be climbing through
your lover's window
while her husband
unlocks the front door,
thinking to yourself,
"Jesus, we didn't
even do anything
today. Just gave
her her insulin shot,"
and your heart
no longer pumps
so much as begs,
begs for silence,
but that's funny,
isn't it? because there
isn't any sound,
only the perceived
dissonance of a
scattered mind;
But maybe, if you're
lucky, it'll be at night,
the two of you in bed,
and she'll timidly ask
if you're hungry,
and you'll say what you
always say to that question:
yes, yes I am, and she'll
ask if you want a sandwich,
and you'll say, "I'll get it."
"You're too sweet."
"It's not a problem."
After spreading the mustard,
there'll be a pain in your chest,
mild at first, just at first, but by the
time you get halfway down the
hall you'll drop the plate
of sandwiches on the floor
and ***** in the toilet,
and you'll probably know
then what's happening;
But what did you ever do
to earn that kind of quiet,
relatively quiet, ending?
You've got a few things in mind,
but you've got a few more bad that
negate any kudos any kind
of god would award, so
let's be honest. That's what
you want, right?
Death will wake you up,
probably around 6 because
you've never been a morning
person, and when you wake
it won't be from a feeling, like
a physiological manifestation,
no, no that'd give you time
to remember Mom in the
hospital when she called
you by the wrong name.
No, Death will come in
the form of a headache,
and if your wife was
there she'd already be up,
and she'd say something
like: "Poor baby," and
get the Tylenol out of
the cabinet to the left
of the sink for you,
but she's not there, is she?
No, she's living with her
sister right now while
you "figure yourself
out" and your
kids, two boys and a girl,
all grown with families
of their own, think you've
been selfish, but what was the
word you countered with?
"Necessary." Yes, it's necessary,
you'll think as you pop three pills
in and run your mouth under the
facet, and you'll collapse, pills
rolling across the floor, stopping
under the cabinets where no one
will ever find them. Your vision
will burn white; it won't fade to black
like you thought, and your head, Jesus,
your head sounds like tools in a dryer,
but you know there is no sound, and
this is it, this is honestly it, you alone
on the floor in nothing but your
grey boxer shorts, the ones riddled
with holes that your wife told you to throw out,
and a fragmented halo of Tylenol around you.
Your wife. Your wife. Your wife. Your wife.
You'll say her name, you'll say "Eve,"
and your mouth will close itself, and your
fist will unclench itself, and you know what?
That'll be it, to borrow a phrase. Nobody
will find you for three days, and even then,
when they do, they'll wish they never had.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 12:38 PM UTC
flashes of the past crash into my mass
blasted and scratched, hide chapped,
I clap and shout at the memory
I approve of myself –
Old images of self-worth re-birth
And my fading girth is better for the earth
Large ***** pass gasses collapsing the greenhouse, but
I approve of myself –
Internal health and immeasurable wealth
As if the Delphi oracle imparted me
with love for self
growing stealth
with approval of myself –
affirmation nation retaliating against
infatuation with concentration camp
regurgitation
my patience wears thin and yet still
I approve of myself –
Granting panic stricken epidemic victims
Injections of insulin and bicarbonate soda
So the right wing harm bringers
Will no longer harbinger orangutans
Oh! the will of man…
Planning to land a dodge ram on the spam factory
Rectally cramming grandfather clock hands
Scamming bands of Ayn Rand fans
I approve of myself –
Derailed writings without direction
Making up things like “latterly”
…..better to just end it----
I approve of myself
And much of this message
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 4:50 PM UTC
A greased pig at the county fair,
A roller skating tween chips her tooth,
The junky's pupils: pinned.
Heavy-lidded gaze notched up: a higher degree of horror.
Ecstasy and agony: life's charged poles, opposing,
I, dysthymic before the blister of try,
have touched too close to life's hot center,
A cliché, a disposable metaphor,
The insulin syringe (use once and destroy) of metaphors,
Oh restless boy (you're a man) you don't see it?
Beyond the sour vinegar of feet and let's pretend,
the mildew funk of gym-stale ****
the recess bells gave way to sirens.
Oh, valor—Toro—pinned Pamplona,
Gored by c**k, though, not by bull
Cause see it seems—yes, Spain then.
Nothing written really happens, see,
mind to bear this burden.
Tense of verb fit the charge in air,
a crunchy taste like seizure mouth, the sockets blown
some smoke slips out the corner of my mouth, my eye
regards you trying to seem real.
2011
Aug 17, 2011
Aug 17, 2011 at 8:18 PM UTC
The affiliation with gangs keeps the *** shops in business after hours
The prostitutes sell their souls and bodies to make ends meet
But what does 'making an honest living' even mean?
When the police can't even keep the streets we call home, clean?
When the government can't keep crime at bay,
And show these forgotten souls a different pathway?
But can still look forward to a pay rise every second day.
Déjà vu of a man walking his dog home after the transaction is complete.
The drugs are in his hand and his dog is on a leash.
The man doesn't have dark skin so police let him walk in peace.
The moon is high,
Casting a shadow,
Over the kids in the streets.
Higher and brighter than the moon could ever be,
They stay out late,
So they can afford to sleep.
The world was theirs if they had a can and clean walls,
To express the lost art called freedom of speech,
But if they didn't,
Then who's world was it?
Probably yours.
The stumbling ******
Caught fumbling his car keys,
Is put behind bars,
Before he reaches his car.
After further investigation,
He was searching for his insulin.
Oh well,
Six months imprisonment.
If he does't retaliate he'll get off on probation,
But if he has a fit from not getting his medication,
We'll say he attacked us.
Beat him to death,
And get awarded community protection,
Medals.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 10:07 AM UTC
my father told me that i looked like a mental institution
with sleep and sea-salt in my hair
sipping strawberry lemonade in the backyard
high on insulin
your tongue is wry like chalk
when you swallow sad boy symphonies
stumbling in your own vision of paradise
cooking up a dream with your head inside your heart
they heard what you said, once the herd was gone
i'm the only one who reminds you of lost days
you said that this was what you liked about me most
lost cause-poetry
don't blow up my garden
you can't even make it snow in july
(k.w)
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 6:26 PM UTC