How???Were are the wordsI need to saybut I don't knowhow to say themcause I don'tknow what they may be.
My BabyI have a baby on the wayan I can't waitit's what I have hoped foran never thought I would get luckyan have one grow in mewhen I gave up anhad no hopeI was luckyan got what I always wantednow I can't wait to see it's facethanks GodI love You the most.
shut uptalk shittalk shitthat's it,loud mouthget out
Point BlankThis bitch is wackeshe thinks it's okto just smoke crackdoes she care about others?hell noshe only caresabout her next highlike really???you think she cares if she dies???nocause that's what drugs do.
Just Do ItStick to your gutthat's all some haveto guide them the right way.
MaybeI have a pointI really dosome may understand mejust like I do.
A little but moreA dadis a guy with a childthat rises an love the childthe kid has there heartno matter what they will love the child.my manwill be a dad soonan he will love an care for the childan mejust like a real dad should.
UntitledI prove pointsI don't chicken outif a point needs to get outI let it out.loud an clearliars aren't on my sideI kinda wishthey just roll over an die.
I love it AlreadyLove is here,an always will be here,I have a baby on the way,an I can't waitto see there smiling facean that baby will have all of my love an more.
ElenaElena followed me homefrom work one nightand stayed for tea and eggs,and all that minimum wageand wars between the sheetscould bring.She said she was a goddess,daughter of a carpenterwith her long red, red hairand eyes as warm as hazel nutson Christmas morning.Her hands spoke brailleacross my backand made the silenceof Sunday into a prophecy.She left one Octoberjust like she said she wouldwhen the fireflieshad turned their wings to ash.And I found revelationin red, red wineand cheap red, red fabricthat came off in my handslike summer.
there's something fatal about coughing up verse.i got written up for writing poetry on the desksat school.i don't think they liked the language i usedwhen i wrote how my heart was beatinglike headboards against the walls of people fuckingat 3 am to the sounds of joy divisionwhenever you read me paintings at dawn.they were going to send me to the counselor,but i said my therapist probably wouldn't like that,so they just let me go.but this saturday, when i'm cleaning lives off of every desk in school,i'll just be thinking how much i'd rather be sitting on your roofand laughing when we argue about rimbaudand sighing as we start to die.
renovationsmy mind looks at my bodyand says, "i don't like whatyou've done with the place."
WineHead on a patisserie tablewith a wine-scented napkinthat I scrawled your name all overin the hopes it might necromanceor just romance youto this place, at this time,so we could be together againand although the guitarist knowsthat I'm broken beyond blueI keep reaching for the bottlein the hopes it might recreateor just replicateyou.
I'm too poor to feel so middle class.My teeth still ache from the dentist,but it doesn’t stop me from nibblingthe cheese danish I bought at Krogerthis morning, warmed by thirtyseconds in the microwave. My mugof hot chocolate is too big, and Idrink it all. The washer is on its lastcycle; the cat is purring at my feet.Netflix is background noiseto clacking keys, typing a transcriptof middle class morning that I’ll latercall a poem or a turning point,wondering when I became such an adult.
the polar opposite of translucencycradled in the echoof a cloudburst,the earth curls invisible fingersabout my achilles' tendon& pulls;she cries that i am notintended for the clouds,that my mind must not wanderbetween their susurrous concavesso i,furious with her insistence,her petulance,untether myself from the soft,diaphonous comfort of the heavens& sink,down into the weight of gravity.listless green blades welcome my soles,stimulating a tickle,an itch,a sneeze; i never have done wellwith nature,but oh,she is calling for me,soft-tongued and crisp in herown shadow,& i am sorely temptedbut no,no--i am not for the soil.lungs listless,she becomes my inhale;lightheaded& translucent,my alveoli shudderbeneath her force--i am not for the air, either.mellow-skinned,i stand beneath her onslaughtuntil she tires,her molten heart beating beneath my toes;unable to woo me with her facets,she pirouettes,cloaking me in one last attempt,a final shadow.my pores bloom& i r
to the ghosts with you, my deari came not to be kissed,or to have myself cradledin the curve of a throat,but to be broken,to be diminishedby your lack of affection& over indulgence of sexualization.but i,uneducated in your intent,found myself left entirely whole& incapable of the furyi had sought to sow between theridges of my aching ribs.
she suffers melancholy like the plagueshe cannot raise her voice to reachthe notes that she adoreswithout the ocean escaping from her eyes,and she cannot kneel in prayerto the god that she tries to lovewithout copper staining the pavement,but she can scream into a room and not be heard,and she can deprive her stomach and not be seen--but oh,these are not the type of talents to be appreciated,to be loved without condition,and so nobody does.
AgainAnother dayA new beginningAnother nightThe same nightmare
My FeetI sit here holding my soft feet,So pretty,So nice,so clean,just the way I like them,right before I go upstairs to bed