Grim Poetry to Start Your Week

Monday, October 25, 2010 | 1 Comment(s)

For no reason at all i decided to go with some early week poetry shares.  You may notice my poetry has a decidedly different feel from my writing.  what can i say.  im a mystery wrapped in an enigma.  that's why the ladies love me. 


Before the fighting began we were wide eyed lovers.
Like those anime characters.
And I know shit like “before the fighting began” is so clich├ęd,
But so is moving across the country for someone and then having them break up with you.
So im guilty on both counts.

her middle name

i could tell by her breath i would not know her shoes.
it wasn't that it reeked of alcohol or anything
i mean, it was morning
but the tinge of dishonesty in the expectedness of her morning breathe . . .
i wouldn't know her middle name.

A desire is not the ache in your belly
that is a feeling
that is something deeper.
You should deal with that on your own time
we've decided to work only on desire in this hardware store
don't change the rules
work with the tools you've been given
that measuring tape only stretches so far.
how dare you throw that wrench at me.

I turned, in a half-hearted attempt to hide the apathy in my eyes
her grasping fists didn't notice my less than subtleties.
Her friends glare with a knowing look of ignorance.
Like they've been given some insight about my soul which they can mutually snicker at.
They feel dominant in their closeness to her.
They try to show me that
they try to prove their dominance

but their stare only solidifies my impression of them
worn tennis balls looking to put some more zip on their forehands.
They haven't smelled her breath in the morning
they already know what color her toothbrush is.
And the think they know mine.
But its not green.

Your Diary

Its hypocritical
I understand that
but your poetry scares me
you behind the curtain being honest about me
even to just yourself
that scares me
more than you can imagine

perhaps it has something to do with the tangerine dandelions you can't omit from your dialogue,
those sugary bumps hide the demons that fester underneath

your poetry scares me
I understand that its hypocritical
as we swing back and forth 
smiling to the breeze
I wait for the rope to snap

and down comes baby cradle and all

perhaps its the suppressed spirit I think I caused that can only leak out onto pages hidden in a drawer.
your passion pressed like a tear in a pillow, muffled so mother doesn't hear

everyone's so guarded already
its hard knowing something solid is behind your back
when you don't let me feel
let me feel
let me feel

like I have the key in my pocket

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