A spot or two
All that I can drink
I believe I got it all from you…
Er…what was your name?
Swing lowThree cold coins cast weights in his pockets
that's one for the ferryman but two for the heroin
and three states of being were left out as an option
birth, life, and death and he chose to choose none of them
you'd think that he could smell the approaching Death
if he hadn't sand blasted his nose to nary a snort in Life's breath.
and maybe he wouldn't have been blind to other paths
but it's hard to see the future from a low hung head
so swing low, and take a taste of the madness
but take a dip like a quill in ink to create your life's masterpiece
and if you sink too low then then just brush it off naturally
because nothings permanent and unless you make it seem to be
hold your chin up and breath sighs relief
the devils are on your back so they cannot impede
and child slow down there's no need for grief
you can't live life dead if dead set on living
two cold coins cast weights in his pockets
enough to clip a roach you'd think.
but for all the currency he carried currently
Snow Blind And SinkingWhen he winced and put another pinch up his nose
he laughed and huffed gasses that make cars go faster.
He’s an asshole who robs you blind at kind point
each dollar cast away with a smile but he still wants more.
Veins collapsed, a heart beat to death wheezes
or it would if failed lungs hadn’t already ceased breathing.
He’s agape left gasping with hate, for
the thing that saved him took away his only escape.
snow driven adrenalin pushes him into a tar pit.
He’d be never heard from again, for
it’s a sure thing he’d drown in it.
if it wasn’t for friends love
the he’d be another eulogy and
a fucked up, fair faded, statistic.
but he’s sadistic because he
but misses it.
but he can wipe clean the snow and
remnants of the tar pit
cause he loves more
those who braved it to save him.
Hooked on PhoneticsIt's not all in the hype, see?
You still have to set your roots.
Mine just happen to be hyphy.
I'm split-even like coduceus
fueled by semi-synthetic
ergot infested magic rye.
I'm a nice guy who likes long walks on the beach,
my molly actually sass, but still crystalline, and
using my spare time to visit worlds- dimethyl triptyline
lyrics are a pattern. Whose
divination's just a gift to me.
"They" tell me what to write,
point at you, and scream
"REPEAT AFTER ME!"
A little dab will do ya.
"How bout a line or two sir?"
"Dude, what about your health?
Do think that that's conducive?"
No, I think it's magic. It's talking to god.
I love it more than anything and it's killing me.
Isn't that odd?
A Poem Like TeethNot a line to sit half a happy couplet.
All the metaphors aren't fives but
still love to hear speech through crooked slant rhyme.
All the while wear a stupid half simile.
Ain't an old poet; though, old speech spoke colloquially:
speak Modern-English romanticized chatter,
Not a line to sit half a happy couplet.
All the while wear a stupid half simile.
Rich Man's Poor DreamsThe old man lived in a house of gold bricks and
thought his life a dream.
Though, when he paid for happiness brick by brick
he had company but,
no place to sleep.
A house is not a home and
a home sure ain't a bank.
Though, when you're cold and lonely with possessions to spare
what would posses you to think happiness comes cheep?
The old man spent it all away on a cashed cache o' bucks.
That son of a bitch couldn't buy happiness but,
he sure found it when he stopped giving a fuck.
Never-Empty EvergreenThe trees leaves leave,
casting not shadows, but bitter memories
of a full head of hair.
Willow's weep in winters dead grasp
and send not a prayer nor death rattle
only silent sighs resign to fate.
All will always be lush and green;
for, even when it is not I
pretend my vegetation is large and pristine and
think myself an evergreen.
Daddy Issues Check ListI was born a monster before a man.
Honestly, I'm a cannibal.
I never hesitate just so long as it's consensual.
Lose the shirt and pants;
speech not necessarily sequential.
If you're in a pinch I could pinch too,
if that's what you're in to.
I have a hunger in my chest that was formed up in my own mind.
I'd probably worry about my cockiness if I wasn't so spineless.
I'd lie if I was in a bind. Though, I'd rather bind you and play 'Risk',
We'll just live 'Life'. while you use your mouth to 'Sink my Battleship'.
Okay, what you want, you can't always get.
That's alright with me because I get to WANT to get.
Yo, I heard the wind sing strong that 'The Thrill is Gone'.
heard rumors that 'Love Don't Live Here Anymore'
'Babe, I'm Going to Leave You' 'cause I never really needed you,
wore you like a tattoo but the tattoo came with a rash too.
Maybe that's too rash an attitude?
I've been told I'm overly passionate.
But you're a little... what's the term kids use?
Something like 'ratchet'?
losing my mind againJust about the only things I can't hold onto,
a steady job and my sanity.
you know this.
Bong star goes hard when
ripping himself down
slightly underweight and
made of lead.
amphetamine found on the day to day
adulterous adulterants found in high dose in cheap MDMA.
either-way, pure or not,
I'm just happy to be happy, happily-
drop a call- drop a line
got a dime piece?
Then, man, everything fine
we go tradesys, man,
it's crazy, but
the higher I get the
less the worry 'bout what 'crazy' means.
A DefinitionWords that mean the same as ‘gay’:
Happy, bright, joyful.
Queer and homosexual.
Words that do not mean the same as ‘gay’:
Weak, stupid, lame.
Evil, abomination, shame.
You got that?
Is not an insult.
NadirHis shotgun smile
says it all -
smell of rabbits mating
in the basement
keeps him up at night
and he likes
his neighbor's daughter
as she stands on tip-toe
in the back yard,
peering through his window
or drowning kittens in the river.
He keeps a razor
in his bedroom,
siphons after-shave through
a loaf of bread
and calls it magic,
remembering how his teacher
found him naked,
shoved into a closet
and how she put
marbles in his mouth
to keep him from speaking.
His mother only laughed
and told him to wash
his clothes out
in the bathtub
and not drip water
on her carpet.
Don't leave a witness
his best friend said.
Pictures have ears
and walls can feel
when God has seen your secrets.
UntitledGlide through the heavens
in hopes to evade
the crimson wings
that holds you down.
When will you shut the pearly gates
and walk away?
When will you cut the crying chains
that paint you grey?
είναι μια σιωπηλή διαδικασία αλλαγής
που αντιλαμβανόμαστε εκ του αποτελέσματος.
Δεν Μπορεί Να Είναι Ο Στόχος.
Like a vagabond.
At a four-way
street, past any signs
that I comprehend.
If I had I had it my way,
I would cruise on the highway
and never stop.
pillow talkthere are thousands
of tongues i could
memorize; new words
for love tucked between
teeth often biting
my chapsticked lips
could learn to bow to
grammar laws in
i could master writing
symphonies in syntax,
spend hours penning
volumes in languages
of longing and love,
but i'll never find a
phrase that fits you
the way your body fit
to mine, back bent.
i'll never find a name
for how our lips tucked
together, for my hands
in your hair, for the
rapture in your eyes.
adolescenceWe look up into the sky
and see the stars as millions
of possibilities for us to wrap our hands
around and try, picking and choosing
our favorite constellations like apples
in the fruit aisle of a grocery store.
We talk about our dreams
of leaving this town
far behind and far away,
but we don’t talk about how
leaving home means leaving each other
and each constellation we wrap our hands
around propels us into completely different
directions. We want to hold on to each other
as much as we want to let go of this dustbowl,
but we can’t have both,
and that scares us.
We look up into the sky
and see how big the galaxy is
even when we can’t see 90% of it
and we are suddenly aware of how
small we actually are, barely grains of sand,
barely specks of dust, barely here at all.
We stop looking up and look
down at our feet shuffling,
worried and afraid for each other
because we barely sleep and failing
a class means failing high school,
failing to get into the dream college,
Five Reasons to Not Write PoetryI.
Sooner or later,
It'll mess with your head;
You'll be taking a shower, or
Lying in bed
When the "inspiration"
Hits you hard
And when you miss the bus and first hour
You have to use the
"I over-slept" card.
It'll have you thinking
At every point of the day;
Twisting words and making rhymes
Prodding until the language sways
To your fingertips
Lower case letters nip
In hopes that you'll use them
Abuse them until you are at
They will mock you until
You simply can't think;
The words swirling around,
They will push you to the brink
Of complete denial,
Of absolute insanity;
"Yes, I ate enough" and "Yes, I
Feel fine" are the words you
Have to beat.
You will not care how people
React to what you say;
What do they know of
What we do everyday?
You think that to yourself,
As a way to not seek help
In the comfort of real
Love and not the fake kind
You write of.
You will lie and you will
Cheat and scoff and say
For all your most
Important words are