• I can’t compare your eyes
    to a starry night
    because they hold more
    beauty than a thousand universes.

    I can’t compare your voice
    to a Mozart symphony
    because you sing songs
    that rip my chest wide open.

  • They say that
    your body is a temple,
    but I can’t help
    drinking Jack Daniels
    and smoking Marlboro Reds
    or fucking,
    because it’s how
    I forget the way that
    you abandoned me.

  • I am the swimmer of your heart,
    drowning in the blood,
    holding my breathe until
    I can’t hold it any longer.
    And then I suffocate in you
    just like I always dreamed I would.

  • Don’t think about the words you write.
    Eliminate all train of thought and
    remember the way you feel,
    because your feelings guide the words
    you write. Your heart is tied to your fingers.

  • this televised world we live in
    where we sell our souls to appease the
    companies that “care” and give us
    shit when we don’t love the right lady.
    what the hell are we supposed to do
    when our lives are broadcasted to the world?

  • My midwest wife left her mother to be by my side and I don’t have the heart to tell her that her momma would treat her better. A relationship full of sentiments or lies.

  • If i fixate on the mix-tape
    of the dead rapper guy that
    got shot up
    at a donut shop
    while some cops defended
    their loot
    then what am I
    doing with the life that
    I’ve been give?
    I’m not standing up for the ones
    I love or even their tasty treats.
    I’m just using myself to inhabit
    the blank space we call
    Earth in a manner such as this.

  • deep inside this origami life
    equal pieces of me
    fester in the
    entrails of my colon
    never consuming the
    delightful darkness that
    enters my mind only
    deterring it for my sanity

  • You have defended every single
    ounce of life that you pulsate
    through your heart
    into my lungs
    and back out your ass
    that’s not romantic at all
    I think the world hates me
    Why do I feel so abused
    I’m not sure what the hell is going on
    This life is a piece of cake
    The cake is a lie
    References are overused
    I’m overused
    I’m broken

  • I have been so defended in the way that you look at the stars and oscillate through the looking glass on the beautiful night with the rainbows and butterflies and the screaming ox that chews on some hay. Where have we gotten the ideas that pooping in grass is acceptable?

  • I question the reality that I live in
    with a broken glass bottle on the floor
    and some burnt toast in the toaster.
    What brought me to this point?
    Why can’t I move on?
    I’m so stuck in the feeling of insecurity
    that I forget to live my life in the moment.
    But I need a reimagining, not a makeover.

  • I hate calling her my rebound
    due to the fact that i’m in love with her
    or she’s in love with me
    or we’re mad at the world and sticking it to each other
    what the hell is she doing?
    what the hell am i doing?
    is this the place for reconciliation?
    maybe so, maybe not
    there is no way of telling
    but she does have a nice rack.

  • She was the rebound
    to my flexographic dick swinger
    because obviously I’m not man enough
    to fuck until the break of dawn
    or hold someone tight while they wake up
    as the world comes to a pose on the edge of life
    but who can blame it for using photoshop?

  • He set his bottle on the shelf, half empty, as he slurred his speculations on God.

  • Bottles lay in the street,
    empty from suffocation.
    Dried from lustful thirst.
    Bled out on the curb.
    Shattered on the sidewalk.

  • Silence brings me
    to my knees and
    rips out my vocal
    undertones that
    never breath words
    Godly or ungodly.

  • I was so strung out on coke that I lost all perception of time and internal thoughts. Sure, I was coherent, but my emotions were built into nothing more than an inebriated game of Jenga. I wish I didn’t give up so easily, but when I go on that ride with the first blow, giving up becomes effortless.

  • I’m so high strung
    suffocating with a collapsed lung
    and my heart is being hung
    by the thoughts of illusion

  • They tell me I’m creative, but all I feel like I am is a man with feelings that spread on the page like Nutella or JIF or the I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter spreads on a piece of toasted wheat bread. But somehow my pages aren’t soggy or toasted brown. Maybe my words don’t belong on the page; maybe I’m doing it wrong.

  • Demonstrative breaks;
    escalating tones: her
    sultry voice in my mind.
    Tincture of her soul
    implanted in my nerves,
    neglecting the blood
    emerging from my heart.
    Destroy this thing inside me.