"kicker" poems
Walk by numbers in
the Parisian palette ,
spreading the paint around
in a long line of lip red scarlet.
Pipette sized width following you
as you tread on stone, you’re new.
Sit with the trains and listen
to walls and notice small change,
loose change on the floors.
Passenger’s stare moves you from
carriage to carriage, regardless of UK, American baggage.
Surface again, the longest breath you’ve ever held
has escaped again into winter’s cold.
Steps climb and feet follow,
Anubis with a rifle watching over-
graffiti crowd control for the younger;
sad face, a smile face, Sacre Coeur white face.
Sink down along the track,
railway men hanging large and fat.
Tea for two with warm milk,
tea for two without the milk,
no tea- up and leave, tip with guilt.
**** kicker Paris scruffs her shoes
amongst the paint, the blues, the museum’s closed.
Again, we have to wait for the universe to align before we get to see her smile.
Wait, keep waiting, Mars is coming, revolving towards us.
Doors unlock and we enter a tide of tourist
and artist and the modernist futurist- lost in this department.
She sits there still, not smiling
Paris, without you no coffee would ever be deemed good.
Without you, I’d be lost and artless and heartless and broke.
Even when you take the covers from under me-
I’m still warm.
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 4:32 AM UTC
I quivered in the arena
As thousands of people screamed at me
All because I wanted to touch the *****
I guess I play a different football
Those Hartford wailers weren't there
When I was on the ice
Trying to play goalie to the problematic pucks
All I had was my blocker
And all I could do was deflect
Yet those same people
Try to convict me in the tennis court of public opinion
Just because I wanted to make my own racket for a change
Is that really my fault?
Why should I listen to these people
When zero and love have the same meaning?
Am I beholden to those
That wanted me to kneel in the endzone?
They're the people who separated me from myself
Now that I'm running back
They're claiming they were my safety
But there was never a decent referee
Only people that wanted to see me in stripes
But here's the kicker
I'd forgive them all their past interference
If they'd just stop challenging my plays now
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 2:02 AM UTC
Check - work nine-to-five, eat, sleep, draw again.
Surviving the day, nothing more, c'est bien.
Or call - easy choice for the hand you were dealt.
Just settle for average; win, lose; both unfelt.
If you need to, just quit; to accept it, just fold.
Be resigned to your fate; easy just isn't bold.
If not, you might lose; see pain, heartbreak, and death.
Bracing for blows that will knock out your breath.
So you didn't call a bluff, didn't sees players who cheat?
Or they raised you too much, now you're feeling the heat.
And life may be a ***** she deals hands unfair.
She's the muscle who beats you; detached, doesn't care.
But here's the kicker, dear life's only tell -
There's so much more out there; fight right to the bell!
'Cuz quitting the game after one bad beat?
You'd risk every win, for fear of defeat?
Not even one pair? Means no partner for life?
No falling in love, no taking the dive.
I guess if you're scared, that's a dangerous risk
Probably not worth the bet.
No three of a kind? No partners in crime?
No best friends for life, no slowing down time?
I guess that you're busy, with your job, for your cheque.
Probably not worth the bet.
And no full house? Means no family to kiss...
No building your future, no dogs, and no kids?
I guess it's hard work to lay down those bricks;
Probably not worth the bet.
No royal flush? No laughter, no tears?
No joy and no sorrow, no fun and no fears?
I guess if the bad scares you more than the good,
Probably not worth the bet.
For you, at least, that all may be fact.
You'll hold back your gambles, buy-in if you're backed.
You save up your chips for just the right hand,
And don't see that they are all equally grand.
For life may be cruel, but she gives loans for chips,
So keep playing the game until your luck flips.
So, me? Hit me, life. I'll stick out my chin.
In this game we're playing?
Hell, I'm all in.
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 9:14 AM UTC
Not sure if you’ve ever
heard of
Phineas Gage,
but he was a railroad man somewhere
in Vermont
and one day he accidentally blew a
******* iron rod through his
******* think-box and
here’s the kicker:
He
*******
lived.
Now, this big metal cylinder,
on its flight path,
carved a cavern in Gage’s
cerebrum, more specifically
through his frontal lobe
and when the bleeding finally stopped
and they got his left eye all sewn shut
he told the first person he saw,
probably a loved one crowded around his
filthy hospital bed
to kindly
**** Off and Die.
He got out of that hospital bed,
eventually,
and when he did, he tried his damndest
to go back to work
but he just couldn’t.
What’s more his friends said he just wasn’t
Gage
any more. His personality
had changed.
He didn’t give a **** about
the sunset anymore.
He liked his coffee black and his pancakes
dry.
Which is strange because beforehand
he didn’t drink any coffee
and he didn’t like pancakes much neither.
He also became quite
the drinker,
which is funny considering he hadn’t had
a drop
of alcohol
in his life
before then.
You see I always thought that
personality
was something you couldn’t
touch.
That it was some grand unifying evidence
of the existence of the human
soul.
But here’s Gage,
who just so happens to take
a pole to the dome
and suddenly he’s just
not
Gage.
So maybe it’s true
that we’re all just
machines
and you can pull a man’s
favorite color
or his taste in music
or his eating habits
out of his head
and set them on a sterile tray
right in front of him.
That makes sense.
But everything in me
still wants to
believe.
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC
I'm walking down a path I know
I got the volume on full blast
I've still got thousands of verses to go
I intend to make each last
But someone walks up to me
Telling me to cease and desist
I begrudgingly comply
But in my mind, I say this:
Don't talk to me now, my headphones are on
I'm dancing in my mind to my song
My feet match the kicker, my heart beats the snare
In this moment, I don't have a care
So while I've got my headphones on
Please take note, I'll carry on
It's the end of the day, I'm finally home
All homework and chores have been done
So I walk up to my room, warm and alone
And soon the phone's concert has begun
So I say
Don't talk to me now, my headphones are on
I'm dancing in my mind to my song
My feet match the kicker, my heart beats the snare
In this moment, I don't have a care
So while I've got my headphones on
Please take note, I'll carry on
I've got two more hours on this ride
Through a long and quiet night
But I've got a little help by my side
To get me to the morning light
So I say
Don't talk to me now, my headphones are on
I'm dancing in my mind to my song
My feet match the kicker, my heart beats the snare
In this moment, I don't have a care
So while I've got my headphones on
Please take note, I'll carry on
Don't talk to me now, my headphones are on
I'm dancing in my mind to my song
My feet match the kicker, my heart beats the snare
In this moment, I don't have a care
So while I've got my headphones on
Please take note, I'll carry on
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 8:02 AM UTC
Do you want to know the truth?
The truth that hurts?
The truth you don't want to hear?
Here it is!
I am not a Dallas Cowboys fan.
There, I said it.
If you want my opinion on the Dallas Cowboys,
I'll be more than happy to give it to you.
They will not win another Super Bowl,
at least they won't in my lifetime.
In my prediction, they won't win for a hundred years,
long after I am gone, and long after you will be gone.
The days of Aikman, Irvin, and Smith are as long gone
as Tom Landry, and the use of that stupid hat.
Yes, I do know the wild, wicked history of what people call "America's Team",
the very same way an Atheist with a degree in theology knows the Bible.
Ask me which player snorted ******* during the Super Bowl
under the watchful eyes of millions of television viewers,
and I'll tell you that same guy ended up winning the Texas Lottery.
Ask me the name of the kicker that fooled around with a little girl,
ask me what Michael Irvin was doing on his 30th birthday,
ask me this, ask me that, and I will tell you,
and you will know that I will never love the Dallas Cowboys.
No sir, not when they currently have a wide receiver
with a tendency to lay hands on his mother.
Yeah, I know. That was a year ago. But still, he hit on his mother,
and I will never wear that scumbag's jersey
or shake hands with him if I saw him in person.
You may think I have a problem, and yes I do have a problem.
It's the Dallas Cowboys that I have a problem with.
They should never be on a football field
and call themselves America's Team
when they don't even have the best quarterback in football.
That's right. Tony Romo is a no-good prima donna
who will never live up to people's expectations.
Hell, he ain't half as good as Don Meredith,
and did Don Meredith win a Super Bowl?
Did Danny White win a Super Bowl?
Neither will Tony Romo.
Like I said, the Cowboys will never win another Super Bowl.
That's the truth, and if you can't handle the truth, then that's too bad!
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 7:22 PM UTC
Are you sorry for things you've done?
For the violent attacks on your little son?
"It'll make you a man" that's what you said
As you kicked him and beat him around the head?
Or do you still think that it's ok
To treat your family that way?
More secrets hidden over years gone by?
Will you truly repent before you die?
Well, forgiveness to you isn't mine to give
After all your crimes do you really want to live
With the consequences of what you've done?
You blame it on trauma from carrying a gun?
But you beat your wife and you beat your kid
There's just no excuse for what you did
You hide behind your public face
Little man, you're a disgrace
You thought that this was buried in the past
But karma's a ***** and she's catching you fast
For the people you pretend to have been your brothers
Here's the kicker pal, some of us are mothers
Here comes the reckoning for what you've done
For the torture you visited upon your son
So don't blame the job for what you did
Newsflash - a warrior doesn't hit kids!
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 10:10 AM UTC
Dear Self,
You aren’t too kind to yourself,
You always feel like a hologram of skin and bones, a wasted soul.
Your mind runs ninety-nine miles per hour, yet you’re seated in place.
You’re locked in place, fighting off that weather of weapons, all on your own.
You smoke those cancer sticks, and BAM!
All your stress seems to flow away, like a rushing river across the land.
You stay up all night, you insomniac, you night owl, you can’t even bring yourself to get up in the mornings to slave away under those fat cats on top of society.
I hope one day, you can find the courage to go back to being a motor mouth.
I hope one day, you’ll go back to being that talented show stopper.
I hope that one day.
You’ll stop being such a dust kicker and get back on your feet.
Just know that every chapter comes to an end, but at least we’ve anticipated this one against all the other endings we have yet to face
Sep 11, 2021
Sep 11, 2021 at 11:36 AM UTC
When I was younger, I saw life
As white houses in neat rows
I loved the chrome, the steel, the metal dreams
The feel of sand and dirt and seams
There was only the meadow, the machine, and me
Now everydays an endless stream
Of cigarettes and magazines
I’m trying my best to be just like them-
A sad sirens song with red lipstick on
A ******* kicker, with a heroine heart
They say I’m dangerous because I don’t know what I want
They say I f@cked my way to the top.
Well we all mourn atop skyscrapers
As they clamor for judgment day
But I’m not afraid of dying
When the words of prophets are written on the subway walls
And the good crawl down to tenement halls
They sing for fame, liquor, love, scream give it to me
Because I thought I was sitting pretty on the throne of metal steel and chrome
Fools, I say, you do not know
That all I want now is to be left alone
So I sit up at night talking to the moon
Becoming so lost its like I never existed in the first place
Listening to the fabulous clockwork of heart and lungs
Listening to all heart’s dints and machinations
Made of metal and tears and chrome
I was lovely once, marred forever by a pair of (heart shaped glasses)
The foulmouthed flower of bohemia
Moonshine, take me to the stars tonight
While I’m not afraid to live fast and die young
Among the whispering , the champagne and stars
Angry yet, half in love
With death in the cooling twilight
Singing an arsonists lullabye with the workers in songs
For I stumbled into trouble, got my makeup on
A red lipstick sirens sad song
Of metal, steel, and chrome
Its real hard to be free when you are bought and sold
And only money makes you smile
They tell me I did it but we blew it
They say I’m too young to worry ‘bout burning out
So come on, let me bite the bullet now
I’m stuck in the landscape, the loveclub
I'll save you a seat next to me down below
This heights messing with my head
The ground calling to me
Like something out a dream
I’m scared to jump but terrified to stay
And this way I’ll never, feel no pain.
my boy builds coffins, don't ya know
of metal, steel, tears, and chrome
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 10:56 PM UTC
I don't mind myself too much in the opinions of others.
They can believe whatever they want.
The thing I dont understand,
Is why they insist on caring about mine.
Don't tell me that my beliefs are wrong,
Those are empty words, and you're wasting your breath.
I can believe whatever I want,
And here's the kicker, so can you,
Peacefully.
If I want to believe that the world bounces up and down,
Like a child with ADD,
Then I can,
And its none of your concern.
But just because I may BELIEVE that the world bounces up and down,
Like a spasmist child might,
Rather than spins,
Doesn't mean I'm right.
Think,
You may not be right either.
You believe that being gay is wrong.
I believe that hating people for loving another person is wrong.
You can believe what you want,
Thats perfectly fine,
And I wont say anything.
But once you start saying things about what I believe,
And telling me its wrong and disgusting and that I'm an abomination,
Thats not fine.
And buddy-boy...
Me and you are gonna have some words.
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 6:00 PM UTC
When you're so used to feeling broken,
Feeling whole again probably just feels like a different kind of broken.
When darkness and chaos become home, what used to be home seems to be so far from home that it may as well not exist.
But home is always waiting for you, regardless of where you go or where you've been.
Yes, it will take a lot of effort to get back. But it will be worth it. Just start the journey. You will stray from the path, but that doesn't mean you should give up.
Home can be a house, an idea, a pair of arms wrapped around you, or anything else. Home can take many faces, and, here's the kicker. A lot of times, home never leaves you. You just think it does.
That sense of belonging is there, just buried deep below the surface. Home goes where you go. Home is you, and you are always home.
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC
I wonder if you've noticed.
If you haven't
I would like to share with you
A little something:
I grew up with this idea
That someday I would grow up,
Have a girlfriend and get married.
I knew that I wanted children,
That I wanted a dog,
That we'd grow old in my house
And out in the driveway I'd have a Lambo
(I know, crazy, right?)
What I didn't know
Was how I was going to get there.
I didn't know that it wasn't that easy
And that, more than once,
I'd be hit with disappointment.
Not disappointed because I fell in love
And had my heart broken
(More than just a several amount of times)
But because I stepped out
Further and further from this utopia
I had set out for myself.
I learned, more than once,
That everyone had their own little story,
Everyone had their own little blueprint,
And not everyone was interested
In what I wanted.
I heard:
It's too early for you to think of those things,
Enjoy life and use all your energy on other things.
And I did.
I started drawing, started playing soccer,
I started writing poetry, and put music to my poems.
I started playing the guitar, I started singing,
I started to use my energy on "other things."
But the more I think about it
And the more I read about it
I was really just using those things
For my own story.
And that's the issue you should know about me
That's my so called "problem"
And the reason why you probably won't like me.
I lose sight of what's in front of me,
Chasing after what's ahead of me.
I forget the present and focus on the future,
And I fail to realize that you too
Have had to have
Some getting used to.
I don't know the secret
To a perfect relationship
Nor do I think I, as a person, am close to perfect.
And I know that you're not,
And I know you have your own faults and wants,
Your own needs,
And we're all a little selfish from time to time.
But here's the secret,
Here's the kicker,
The catch to my whole speech here:
I have tried to toss
All of my personal feelings aside,
I have tried to put my plans on hold
And fix myself onto the ground.
I've learned that that's how things often go
And it's not that I'm giving up on my plans
I just know that I want to be a part
Of your plans, and you of mine
Because I know that my plans
Could intertwine into your plans
And yours into mine
(That's what I hope anyway)
And if your plans and mine
All become one
Then I will have changed my blueprint,
And I will know the map.
I won't know the ending,
But I will know,
When I get there,
That I tried -
And for the first time,
In a long time,
I didn't give up.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 10:40 AM UTC
A pedal kicker walks forwards
A pedal kicker doesn't think a lot.
A pedal kicker tears at his courage cage.
A pedal kicker doesn't care about you.
A pedal kicker makes mistakes.
A pedal kicker doesn't give a ****
A pedal kicker doesn't always get things done.
A pedal kicker has a fleeting mind.
A pedal kicker aims too high.
A pedal kicker supplies orphanages.
A pedal kicker eats small people.
A pedal kicker eats themselves.
A pedal kicker eats food.
A pedal kicker doesn't have to pretend.
A pedal kicker gets things done too fast.
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 2:06 PM UTC
Immaculate Breakfast
I should congratulate myself on choosing the Raisin stuffed and Lemon Drizzle Scones
Who else would?
Spill the milk gently into granola and berry cereal
And an Immaculate breakfast is laid out in front of me
Like a pastoral English farm valley disturbed by thunder in a Turner painting
Which makes you consider how the sunset depicted must have occurred on a Sunday and
you can almost hear the firebrand puritanical country church sermon that was lanced unto the congregation that morning.
But the sun's high and full of itself here-urban nature's reliable humblebrag.
Underwhelming Work Routine
The reason I doublebag tea -most apparent in its amber hue before the whisker of a milkdrop eases the cannonroll
Is that I need to be aware
Of my shortcomings-personal, financial, strategical, spinal, ****** lexical
While typing out this or the next sentence on a screen that could really do with some Mr Clean
-A line that sounded like it made far more sense in my head
A head that is probably in need of a good dose of Ms Benzedrine
A dilemma which lays the foundations of an oft shoddy, disingenuous, misappropriated, underwhelming work routine.
Oh, the work gets completed
just with far more of an effort and
far less of the breezy confidant
self-satisfaction than I originally intended.
And the tea needs to keep me awake
or else I would daydream restlessly, evoking
rats in cages who make political decisions and far away destinations where
I can at last make my life
completely redundant, or, whisper it, a success.
But that's the great kicker of working life, isn't it?
You make a meal out of the easy stuff
And wish the good bits didn't capture people's attention.
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 7:24 AM UTC
I feel ridiculous
just this mug
with this purple heart and this
yellow background
and do you know what I did?
[here comes the kicker]
clutched that little thing to my chest and
out from my mouth stumbled the most awful sounds
like they were lost in darkness, feeling the air blindly
confused at their mere existence, prodding jabs of exhales,
littering the space with blurbs of mismatch speech
silly as it sounds
I knew if I let myself
I could fill that purple heart with salt water
don't doubt it a bit
shocked about this incident
well
no, truthfully I'm not
as soon as my eyes locked their gaze
I could feel a stir
this buzz of an awakened monster
monster
and one just can't remain calm
with that
oh well, better luck next time
as in I might find a sword or a hero or
I don't know
courage
to look away and not dwell
idle in the same space, loitering
purposefully unintentional
if you can believe that
* side-note
rolled the word "Respect"
around in my head
for awhile
stretched it like taffy in the window, shot it at
faces as though it were a lecture
mulled over the depth of it
r-e-s-p-e-c-t
rreessppeecctt
came to this conclusion:
is it possible to respect "this"
....."this"
yet at the same time secretly
openly?
show that I wanted to hear you say
"yes, that'd be fine"
but it came out as
"thank you for respecting this"
oh.
ok
Nov 23, 2011
Nov 23, 2011 at 12:21 AM UTC
you feel so in love
until you realize
that everyone *****
and everyone smells
and you can't do it
it's not even the ********
that's the kicker
love is beautiful in
a vacuum
but in real life
it's an ugly terrible thing
filled with missteps and
half truths covered in
jealous accusations
I can't love you
it's so irrational
you're too beautiful
you flirt too much
you talk too much
hell you talk at all
I need the girl in the
glass case
the one tucked away in
the castle tower
where I can keep her safe
and can stay safe
from her
because
how can you love
something with the
power to ruin you
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 2:06 AM UTC
Blood is thicker than water
That's what they taught her
But the blood of the covenant is thicker
Her thoughts on life flicker
She couldn't care less what they whisper
It won't change her mind, it won't effect her
But here's the kicker
Thoughts of suicide are always with her
Curiosity killed the cat
She thinks too much of that
But here's a matter of fact
Satisfaction brought her back
Blind as a bat she feels
With a hope she never reveals
But lets not forget
All the things she hides with deep regret
Gild the lily
So, she tells herself to do this truly
But her thoughts they rig
For how can she justify putting lipstick on a pig?
No rest for the wicked
This is not the life she picked
But even with the promise of grace
She knows no peace
She's hidden from view
Even from you
But well behaved women rarely make history
So she'll remain a mystery
One must consider the final result
So, when she leaves it's not your fault
But on brighter thoughts she leans
Because the end justifies the means
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 2:01 PM UTC
It's hard to see how unread the love we share becomes. How strangely women turn off our solo.
White snow stealing the grass
So children can ride them.
The unforgiven gardens to secret
Soil.
You didnt know you didn't know.
It's all you, it's all you.
The Canadian geese chasing the ducks
Hoping for hand outs.
Is all we will ever feel
And all we ever hold back
Because our tireless souls
Have liove with our strange
Breaded dreams
To show our serenaded
Screaming psalms amongst the pitty of rainy days
And make us hunt those midnight
Martini kisses player fashion.
But now comes the kicker and we are settled. To rap that we have lost our
Main vision forgotten so ignorently lost.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 2:23 AM UTC
You might
get the idea,
when reading
my poetry,
that I am
some sort
of a dumb guy,
who really doesn't know
about Zen or poetry,
and really isn't very good
with the English language,
or you might
see something different,
some guy behind this stuff,
who really does
know something,
like that he really
shouldn't use the word
really so much,
and who
is sort of a tongue in cheek,
Zen *******
and that he actually does know
something about poetry,
and that he uses
the English language
this way
intentionally,
but the real poet's voice
is probably
none of the above,
and then there is
the real kicker,
and that is
that he is
all of the above!
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 8:45 AM UTC
another life lesson came to me today through the bonding of loneliness and public transportation -
a filthy bus stop if there ever was one:
trash, human hair, the smell of ****
I was standing there in the depths of my loneliness,
despising everyone that passed by,
when I hear the clicking of boots.
they're supporting firm legs and a sharp jacket
opened just enough to see a soft white shirt
falling delicately off *******
her head is turned away,
hair flowing and dark,
and I think to myself
'I wish I could get a woman like that,
I wish she would give me the time of day, I wish I had a chance.'
she had turned by now:
hazel eyes, cutting eyebrows,
defined lips, strong jaw.
stunning.
and as she steps onto her bus she waves to me,
because we once spent a week together in a hotel in Prague.
and our bodies' desire destroyed that room.
we broke: dishes, shelves, a chair, the bed frame.
they nearly tossed us out.
and the kicker is -
our first night together,
I jokingly told her I was an escort,
and she pulled out her wallet,
and paid me.
so here I was thinking
'this woman is so stunning she's out of my league.'
when in reality,
not only did we tear each other to pieces -
she paid me for it.
Apr 16, 2019
Apr 16, 2019 at 3:01 PM UTC
First froze the 𝘌𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘩,
When the 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘵 climbed too far.
Then was it scalded,
When the ¹horses came too close.
Of course,
Most people eschew mythology & learn only from reduced histories.
Similar situations such as this,
Like Climate Change,
We have lived through before as a species.
That much is plainly obvious.
The kicker is,
At least with what's left of those records,
There is an implication it was also from us.
From how ancestors of ours treated Earth's ecology.
But also,
How the universe treated us.
Jul 30, 2025
Jul 30, 2025 at 1:16 PM UTC
Apparently it's wrong for the girl in the leather jacket to be the most innocent in the room
I don't mean she doesn't know bad things go bump in the night, and the day, and in every alley you look in
I mean she still believes there is good in the world
But apparently she can't think that
Because society has said that because she wears a leather jacket and is six foot tall she can't be innocent
What they don't know is the leather jacket is her coat of arms against the big bad world
It's the weapon that goes well with her height
The height and black leather are quite the pair that become her
But society also thinks that leather is synonymous with bad and bad must mean she's a liar
But the thing is she doesn't lie that often, only once in a blue moon
But they don't believe that to be true
Because apparently it's a lie too
Maybe this time it's not the leather
Maybe it's the makeup she wears everyday
Because that must be hiding something
It has to be a disguise
But the only thing it hides is a cup
In an ocean of her insecurities
So instead it might be her heavily eyelined eyes
The ones where she uses eyeshadow to shadow some of the storm in her eyes
Because people are afraid of the shadow of a storm they still see
She's found that they love it too though
People often love to stare at things they think are dangerous and beautiful
The kicker is the dangerous part
People stay away from that, whether it's really dangerous or not
So they stare and they talk behind her back
She knows this because people have told her
Weird thing is that she hasn't heard anything hurtful about her
Maybe it's okay though
Because momma always said children are to be seen and not heard
And I guess that's true because I haven't really been heard in a long time
Maybe it's all okay though
Maybe one of these days they'll recognize her name when they come across it in their magazine or news feed or whatever else they're reading
Maybe people will finally realize that everything about her is so much more than a leather jacket, her height, stormy-blue eyes, and blonde hair
Maybe they'll find out once and for all that blondes are smart too
They might discover this when they read one of her poems, or books,
Hear one of her quotes,
See one of her paintings or drawings,
Maybe even a sculpture or two,
When they hear one of her songs
Or one of the thousand other things she loves to do
They'll realize they saw her everyday and walked the same halls as her
Maybe even shared a class or two with her
Or maybe those won't be the things they realize
Maybe they'll see that those long legs carried her out of the small town
That everyone talks and dreams about leaving
But never actually get the chance to
It won't happen for two or three more years though
It's okay
It will just give you more time to learn my name
And realize that apparently this girl that you judged solely based upon her looks is so much more than that
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 9:33 PM UTC
And so I ate the dope again
hard know where to begin
it was great
Made love started off in the shower
Was all awkward just picture a rope bridge
then I had to go *** again
what's become of me
I don't know
mr. Wrong
I guess
everything right I never do
Mr nascar I guess
Yup going in circles
f***** up I don't care
70 and I'm swerve
the car can't walk straight all the way there but ...
least I made sure you're back home
that's the kicker
I was just hiding in the closet
After you head-butted me in the face
calling the cops and I ate the dope again
I supposedly sabotage you
hey it's all good
my car breaks down I'll just walk
she don't see
that I love her
do anything for ever
Ever since I met her.
it seems that she notices me
yet it's just cuz I'm there
She says I'm the one
but not the one you're thinking of
I'm the one that did it
everything that's her past becomes me
it's crazy it happened so fast
I'm guessing three years now
I'm hiding in the closet
just got my nose smashed
yes I'm still complaining
that s*** hurt
just as much my fault
we both lovingly provoke
till death do us part
I don't see that I love her
and I still do
I see that I need to leave her
I know it's something I won't do
I see her come out sometimes
it makes me sad
that beautiful little girl in there
now something else
it's not her
maybe
this is the monster in me speaking
Maybe I am the one that's insane
I can't tell right from wrong or anything anymore
all I know is that ive seen her
and that seems alright with me
Jan 22, 2019
Jan 22, 2019 at 2:44 AM UTC
he’s got this look like he doesn’t know how much he’s into them for and the kicker is he’s alone. I’d subtitle him as nervous but it wouldn’t be ample. we’re brothers, 4 years between our bleaker anxieties. he talks with his arms and I see my father at age 32 and my father sees me and winks. brother he knocks the table wood that separates us with both knuckles and tells me he’s gonna need luck in both of these and he shows his open palms. he begins to gag and I **** but he shows me again his palms. I lean back in my chair and pretend I am in a very small space and pretend I am cigarette smoke. I see the oval in his throat and then an egg and then the egg broken on the table. my brother he loses his cool and bites his palms and futilely tries to set the table afire with matches, some light some don’t, no matter. he tells me he usually catches the egg and telling me calms him. still, it’s some trick and I say it. not a trick, he says, but magic. he drowses right there in front of me and my subtitle is **** because I am scared. we go inside to the dog we’re sitting for and I retire to the guestroom where I check the eggs in my bag to make sure they’ve not broken. I go into the bathroom with one of them and say down the hatch. I spend the night on a hard bed and care for my stomach. my stomach and not the egg.
Jul 5, 2012
Jul 5, 2012 at 9:33 AM UTC
I blink the room to a distant light source,
the power shifts, a balance or blue and black,
Black and blue goes my heart,
as my mind argues if I did everything,
right,
My eyes know this haze, heavy workload has weighed down these lids,
Unable to scavenge, left to rely on a system that tends to repeat,
that tends to repeat,
I blink the room becomes a distant light source,
No matter how far I can feel it's indifference,
1 Mississippi, 2 Mississippi, 3 Mississippi, 4 Mississippi,
Is the distance between me and the next crash,
Sipping on the adrenaline kicker,
find,
That between the moment of here and now is a very long time,
1 Apple, 2 Apple, 3 Apple, 4 Apple,
Seconds don't always repeat,
What should I do today?
I blink the lights to a blue a lot of us know.
May 4, 2021
May 4, 2021 at 10:09 AM UTC