Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Thirty, Poem Number Thirty: “Stupid Children”

I finally got caught with my pants down
Leaving more on her face than a frown
She spat and struggled and shrieked
And told the world that I’m a dirty cheat.
I behaved like a weakly selfish degenerate
That sent her running for a warm straightjacket.
There was never a better one for me to meet,
We’re a pair of blind toddlers crossing the street.
I’ve been warned and threatened to stop the calls
Or else she’ll finish me off and take my balls.
Although this isn’t a comedy meant for cheers
The madness has me laughing through the tears.
Hopefully one day I’ll grow into a man
And tear off the filthy tights of Peter Pan.

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Twenty Nine, Poem Number Twenty Nine: “Everything, All the Time”

music was our language
a common tongue shared
that divined and divulged
hopes, fears, desires, and prophecies
mixtapes could be
mysteries to be unraveled
or masqueraded confessions
or a better way to express befuddlement
or Everything, All the Time
but that is a broken record
i could never play on repeat ever again
the band broke up
and I find myself
breaking down
the cafes, arenas, night clubs, all empty
on this solo tour
i’m making a new playlist now
one just for me that will
silence the noise from those beloved
songs I can no longer stand
because they are resilient monuments to you
and unlike a tune stuck in your head
i cant just tune you out , this number called
Everything, All the Time.

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Twenty Eight, Poem Number Twenty Eight: “Accursed”

Her legs are crooked,
her arms are obtuse.
Your humor is dark
there is no excuse.

If you are Love,
then why is this so?
Such a beautiful girl,
not in body but in soul.

She has needs
as most of us do.
Yet she was unworthy
but for daily abuse.

The anger wells within me,
a punishment so unpleasant.
The anger pools in her,
frustration turned resentment.

I don’t want to be a father
for my own selfish reasons.
You shouldn’t be a Father,
guilty of spiritual treason.

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Twenty Seven, Poem Number Twenty Seven: “Girl With The Bruised Knees”

She was the Girl with Bruised Knees
and the Bruised Heart
with love taken as far as it could
but still a million miles apart

Despite all her Pleading and Pleasing
her Labors bore no Recompense
aside from a Damaged psyche
uninvited Bitterness made manifest

She was the Girl with Bruised Heart
And the Bruised Knees
Battered fruit Ruined
eternally mouthing, Why Me, Why Me

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Twenty One, Poem Number Twenty One: “Calendar Carousel”

Sin fayo, sin fayo,
cada Cinco de Mayo,
salen las hormigas
actuando como descarados.

Pint after pint,
with no shamrocks in sight,
they drink their green beer,
then fights they’ll incite.

Celebrate independence
by burning down your fence.
Fireworks are good for starting
a war as intense.

We can’t always observe
in ways so absurd.
So let’s recognize the spirits
in actions more than words.

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Nineteen, Poem Number Nineteen: “Junior”

To my unborn
and never will be born
Child
I’m not a good man,
I don’t do things right.
This is what keeps me up at night.

Had he been a boy,
here is what I would have said:
Always be responsible and fair.
Never lie, cheat or steal.
Behave in the opposite way that I do.
Love not only yourself but those around you.

Had she been a girl,
I would’ve spoiled her until she was rotten.
Daddy’s little girl surrounded by enough
stuff to keep her happy in her cage
because dating was never going happen.
All boys are dirty, just like your old man.

He would be in little league now
hitting home runs, wowing the crowd.

She would be winning the spelling bee
having no trouble with words like ‘illegitimacy.’

I pray that he doesn’t hold it against me
but that prayer is false
because it was for the best.
No matter how many sad words I write,
I gave him up without a fight

I pray that she won’t hate me
but my empty prayer will be heard by no one
because I don’t believe in God
and He doesn’t believe in me.
So what right do I have to plea?

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Seventeen, Poem Number Seventeen: “Plagued”

You are a pervasive rash
that keeps me from sleeping properly,
Awakening me in fits of itch
until I rip my clothes, stitch by stitch.

My nails dig trenches into my thighs,
no amount of ointment or cream
can quell the firestorm raging under my skin.
You’ve turned my body against itself head to shin.

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Sixteen, Poem Number Sixteen: “Twins”

You’re a wet cigarette
gone limp in the rain.
I’m a dud pack of matches
devoid of all flame.

You and I shall inherit this planet
since we are scared and meek.
When the strong kill each other with hatchets
we’ll hide in our holes for a week.

We’ll meet on the ground above,
as the last people left on the earth.
It’ll be impossible for us to fall in love
because we’re both afraid of getting hurt.

This is how the world ends
with two lonely people
who cannot be friends
or shelve their damaged egos.

The species will die off with a whimper and a sigh,
and I’ll stroke your hair, begging you not to cry.
I’m sorry I said those things about your weight
I was just upset you ate the last of the cornflakes.

You’re a wet cigarette
Gone limp in the rain
I’m a dud pack of matches
Devoid of all flame.

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Thirteen, Poem Number Thirteen: “Drowning”

Love is for the young
or the young of mind.
It is foolish, reckless,
it is responsible
for more than one crime.

As a young man, I dove in
to several pools’ deep ends.
The waters were warm,
Clear, and embracing.
I surfaced every time free of the bends.

Years expanded the blue.
I swam the deltas and rivers
that invaded my closed places.
Until I arrived to endless seas whose
cold depth made my heart shiver.

Sometimes I still jump without looking,
but the ocean beds are dusty and dry.
If there are always other fish in the sea,
then they’ve grown wings to fly.
All that’s left are brittle bones
that creak, groan and sigh.

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Twelve, Poem Number Twelve: “Chameleon”

I’m not a great writer or a celebrated poet.
My truest title is chameleon and don’t I know it.
I mime and mimic the best from literature’s past,
restricted to the verbal fodder I’ve amassed.

My muted colors change more than
the foreign key rings on my night stand.
I imitate with the sincerest of flattery
because I am a flirt wooing all of history.

Genre, style, theme or form,
my pretty words are used to adorn
the lacquered, wooden frames that contain
original works of art, free of mental strain.

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