"strikeout" poems
emtee thots fill my head
my mind races
theres no ammend
thoughts of fear
thoughts of sorrow
thoughts of love
where my beer
i need more drugs
to keep me sane
didnt you hear
im out the game
no longer in the clear
ive lost it
and theres no turning back
the ***** in the mis
STRIKEOUT!
turn the lights out
hurry up
before i ******* knock you out
watch out
dont doubt
im crazy, im physco
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 3:53 PM UTC
Allowing him
A total stranger
Into your world
Only to have him judge it
He wasn’t right in it anyways
A dinosaur in a dollhouse.
All you’re left with
Is sheets twisted around
The end of the bed
A quiet house
Faint smell of cologne on your pillows
The kind that smells cheap and tacky
And an emptiness inside
That you’ve felt before
But now it’s inescapable.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 10:28 AM UTC
if I inch a little closer, it will give me
warmth
I have felt like a million pieces of a human scattered about
in several fields and bushes
like ash floating in the sky
and seashells washed up on the shore
but with warmth,
realness and a true heart is remembered
and the abundance of smeared portraits of
that sad girl
or that stupid girl
or that crazy girl
or any identity
is nothing more than a pen's strikeout on
a word
that just doesn't belong in
a perfect sentence
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 9:45 AM UTC
Hard rubber plate there in the dust
and just beyond, a mound.
With difficulty Catfish turned
and paced the muddy ground.
Even with the walker
these few steps were hard indeed.
Shoulders weak, steps faltering
from Lou Gehrig’s sad disease.
The blue sky stretched above him
so infinite and vast.
With difficulty Catfish reached
back, deep into his past.
He did not think of trophies
or recall his perfect game.
Not at all about the millions
he once got to sign his name.
He was pitching for the Yankees
against men in Dodger Blue.
The World Series game on the line
some whispered he was through
His mind recalled each move he’d made
Each strikeout pitch he threw.
In Memory the fastball’s song
still sang out loud and true.
Like an old dog fast asleep
might dream that He’s still young.
Catfish thought about the night
His last Series ring was won
Soon, too soon, he’d be relieved
of ball, of life, of game
He’ be a plaque upon the wall
down at the hall of fame.
A few more weeks
and he’d be gone-
a casualty, nothing more.
The object now of whispered prayers,
This man fans once adored.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 4:04 PM UTC
I step up to the plate
to take a swing,
three strike you're out
well that doesn't phase me.
I take the risk,
I take the chance
to gamble it all
the big grand slam.
I either prove to you
what I can be
or I strikeout
on my last opportunity.
But I won't back down
so I take my stance
and prove to you
I deserve one more chance.
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 5:17 AM UTC
On the other side
of my over
thinking
I’ve come to realize I still have
more questions
than answers
The future feels just the same as
it did ten years ago when my now
was my future
then
Friends are more often
thought about
than visited
when later today turns into tomorrow
and tomorrow turns
into this weekend
and then next weekend
once a month
whenever you can
because time pushes us all into
this strange thing
called Life
and it’s full of all kinds of ********
designed to rob you of
your money
your sanity
your time
but don’t let this discourage you
from greeting tomorrow
with open arms
and a head full of more questions
than answers
The magic doesn’t seem
to happen as often,
but on the days it does
You have a good day at work,
you pay all the monthly bills on time,
your schedule syncs with an old
college friend and you meet for
coffee, or street tacos from a
local food trailer, or you shoot
pool and whiskey at a dive bar
early Saturday evening
and it feels like the old times again,
and you learn the things you did
were your first stumblings into
adulthood and even though they
sometimes change the way you walk
forever, it’s those times you discover
again when you start your third game
and the songs you queued on the jukebox
start playing and now that you can enjoy
the taste of good whiskey more than the
quantity of well, and all the loose fragments
of the memories we carry every day, left open
on the table in a journal with more strikeout
lines than unmolested phrases all become
complete with each corner pocket called
shot, each memory recalled and retold with
language alluding Greek Epics and Shakespearean
Tragedies,
It all starts to make more sense in ways
and stops making sense in others,
and the future is the same as it always was
some things
you can change,
some people
you can keep
some days
turn into weeks,
months, and years
trying to make sense
of what’s coming,
of what’s gone,
of just what, exactly,
we have now.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 8:42 PM UTC
Precious beautiful boy, stupid little fool boy, sakes alive, what am I to do?
You didn't realise you belonged, and I guess I waited too long to tell you all the things I never knew I had to.
A wicked world of ****** doubts, a sudden single strikeout, can't believe I'm still here and yet you're gone.
Now I guess I'll try to stick it out, but everything is so wrong and life has no business just going on.
I have never felt more sorry; but if you'll forgive me, I'll avow:
if you thought life was bad before, then you should see it now.
And I have never felt more heartbreak; it reaps despite my best
efforts to rip the ********* thing the **** out of my chest
and I would tear apart my eyelids if I thought it could help me see
how these diamond eyes bring some folks high, but they just don't fly for me.
I try to consult my conscience but it speaks to me in tongues,
so I'll settle for poisoning my liver and blackening my lungs.
There's a wound in my world but I'm sadder for you for you'll never know happiness, forever uncompleted.
You wanted happiness for us, but he's gone forever and I'm sorry mommy, for I am defeated.
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 9:19 PM UTC
Three is a lonely number
it's the odd man out
the third wheel
the unreserved ticket
the strikeout
It's what happens
after two
But three is also a prime number
it's the pinnacle
the apex
the try in
the attempt
It's what happens
before
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 10:21 AM UTC
It's quiet except for the humming
of the machines.
Do we call them machines or instruments?
Do they do or do they measure?
They're little helpers who organize
thoughts and time, blocking
hours with workers, friends and
family.
A list manager of sorts.
It's easy -- something like:
>Monday, 5:00 pm - family.Christine
or
>Tuesday, 12:00 pm - friend.Giorgia
And when we miss an appointment
our helpers are fire-walled
from disappointment, sorrow
and lost.
They stay functional.
It's easy for their electronic hands
to <strikeout>
meetings held in an hour
past.
-- something like:
>Sunday, 1:00 pm - family.Dad
to
<strikeout>Sunday, 1:00 pm - family.Dad </strikeout>
-- something like:
>Saturday, 7:00 pm - family.Aunt
to
<strikeout>Saturday, 7:00 pm - family.Aunt </strikeout>
It's done-- changed from a living one to a final zero,
binary absolution.
Our stream continues,
released from obligations
that I hold tight
still.
We're not Protocol Droids.
We feel Ghosts in the Machine.
We see Apparitions in the Rituals,
and Sprites in the Protocols
running through our network
still.
There's no clemency for us.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 2:57 PM UTC
Where can I find Kali?
I have no Gold to Gamble
No body wants me
A cyclopic **********
Perhaps I can find her
In my massive consumption
of Drink<strikeout\ing\> and Swine?
Jan 29, 2017
Jan 29, 2017 at 10:20 PM UTC
i drift these gravel roads
till i run into crossroads.
i pick each path
as if im a psychopath.
drifting my feelings away
till i lay to stay.
every road is like a coded.
everyday im reminded
day or night
im drifting without a fright
despite the midnight
i fly-by-night
i do me
carefree
before i crash
in a flash.
as im drifting
im hurting
there's only one way out
without a doubt
im going to strikeout
with a wipeout.
rided or die
it's going to be a carryout!
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 10:56 AM UTC
And that's the third strike.
I'm out.
I never knew about
What it is like
To scream and shout
By standing in dislike
In my heart's strikeout
But now everything had rearranged
Even though nothing has changed
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 11:31 AM UTC
Don’t look
Just hide
All the lies
Overt your eyes
from the truth
Don’t lift
The plush
Keep hush
We’re in no rush
to see the reason for your rage
Don’t speak
The truth
Or play sleuth
What’s the use
of cleaning up all that mess?
Don’t confront
We’ll fight
For the right
To lose sight
of our past injustices to you
Just sweep
Get a broom
There’s more room
For the gloom
It’ll fit under this beautiful rug
If you don’t
Or you shout
Strikeout or pout
We will cast you out
of this web of ours
Go on
Be sincere
Face our fear
You don’t belong here
and never will again.
Aug 21, 2020
Aug 21, 2020 at 9:52 AM UTC