The deliciously foul, brown liquids and
swirly tubes, filled with sweet choking fumes of
not thinking it, have been depleted.
Without the two biggest
guns in the arsenal
how can i protect
from the battering
rams of solitude,
aiming their butts at me.
I try in pitiful banality,
to hide beneath my sheets.
The cold of the ice
sculpture statue, nice
woman shadow. It
is under the sheets.
with me. I can not hide
from something in the
misshapen, oddly
crossed paths of the
neurons or whatever
makes my brain tick in
it's eccentric, yet
I hope is slightly
charming, kind of helix.
Couldn't you have at least
cheated on me, so I
could melt the ice with the
fire of my all to quick
to surface anger? heh.
Then I could listen
to shitty emo.
Bask in my over-
reacted, affluent,
teenage, (although I
guess I'm, getting a
little too old for
that shit) angst.
I know, as well as anybody else
who read this, faux-cathartic piece of shit.
I should just deal with it. summer romance
or whatever, at least I braced for it.
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2 comments:
choose what voice you're going to tell this poem in, and it will be much better. right now its between a self-mocking, conversational style, and a wordy, high-poetry style. knawmean?
and im really sorry about everything. if you wanna come chill with the homegirls (me and cara), if it would make you feel better. loooove.
eh, i just wrote it as a release of anger/frustration, I doubt I'll do anything more with it.
thanks for the advice though.
i don't know when i'll be in philly next, but you know when i am you will be involved.
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