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.
Tag Archives: writing
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.
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.
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
Day Twenty Six, Poem Number Twenty Six: “Detritus”
She was an amalgam of sanguine ruins.
Her decimated face was a battle worn patchwork
that culminated in a staggering beauty.
Through the thorny thicket of scars,
he was captured by her cobalt blue eyes.
They shone fiercely and completed
an undeniable effect on whomever came in contact with her.
At least it did on him.
She caught him staring,
quickly shielding her face by stepping into a shadow.
His face grew flushed
and the hair on his neck prickled in embarrassment.
He wanted to explain that he wasn’t shocked
by her as much as enthralled.
But, he was afraid
any attempt to do so would end in failure.
He’d been caught gawking
and needn’t make it any worse by bumbling
through some patronizing apology.
There was no second wind and away he slinked
back into his own wreckage, letting the moment fade away.
Day Twenty Five, Poem Number Twenty Five: “A Brusquely Told Tale of Love, Marriage, and the Death that Comes After”
He didn’t want to get married,
She didn’t want children, let alone two.
Together, away they were carried
by the things they swore they would never do.
The love came easily enough,
but not the hard work that made it count
because that’s something that never does
if it did we wouldn’t want it anyhow.
The marriage was never faultless
but it was always safe and assured.
Alone they would hardly impress,
but together they flourished and endured.
Suddenly, he was revealed a fraud
and their life was mashed and bled
like the enraged fist of God
pummeling pure innocence in the head.
He took to sleeping on the couch
only after she had left her keys
because the bed they’d shared, he found
was too big and cold and empty.
His crime was indiscretion and poor taste.
This was a fatal flaw deep in his character.
Tragedy is often what heroes await,
but brave and bold he was not – he abandoned her.
The fight swirled beneath his skin from the start.
However he refused to let it seep through.
The fear and remorse tore him apart,
his guilt shackling him to his lonely truth.
Ultimately his daughters never blamed him,
not outright to his face at least.
Yet they still learned a valuable lesson:
love is only as perfect as people can be.
Day Twenty Four, Poem Number Twenty Four: “Want”
Sorrow
does not appear merely when
something terrible occurs.
It is what fills the soul
when there is an absence
of a particular joy.
Sometimes
I just want someone to run
their fingers through my hair,
because, God knows,
it’s been so long since I slept well
and a warm thigh will always trump a cold pillow.
Day Twenty Three, Poem Number Twenty Three: “Alarmed”
I woke up this morning
weeping
I don’t know why
perhaps
it was over
a dream I can’t
remember
or
a dream never
realized
Day Twenty Two, Poem Number Twenty Two: “Lunch With A Ghost”
Tonight I am restless,
and tomorrow I will be incomplete;
Last week I had lunch with a ghost,
and perhaps some weekend soon
I’ll take a drive alone,
my passenger seat burdened
with heavy baggage.
I have so many books,
that I use the skinny ones as placeholders
for the bigger, heftier tomes.
They were once small,
everyday surprises, presents waiting to be opened
with the notes she left between the pages
that fit more snugly than
what I’ve replaced them with.
More and more I fill my days with
distractions, work, and time wasters
hoping to mute the booming silence
echoing off the walls and
filling my moments of solitude
with tension and terror and
spine crushing sadness
that will last for as long as
these words remain alive in us.
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.
Stupid Children 