Childhood Trauma > Poetry. So I'm giving you more poems.

Tuesday, October 9, 2012 | 0 Comment(s)

If Steven Colbert is correct (and i believe he would argue that he is always correct) and quality is defined by how much of it is consumed by the masses, then lets just say my childhood trauma would be more lucrative than my first book of poetry.  We'll see.  I'm tempted to just keep bombarding you all with unfortunate scenes from my youth, but therapy is increasingly expensive.  Therefore, I really have no choice but to indoctrinate you with even better poetry.  Suckas.

I truly hope you enjoy:

As a side note, if and when i do publish some of my poems, this first one is the title poem.

Depression for Beginners

I wonder why they put train lines near all the cemeteries?
Perhaps the empty tracks add a nice touch
to stones glowing blue.

Or maybe it accentuates the transitory nature of the transit system?
It could be a coincidence.
It could be that nobody wants to see trains.
Or dead people.
So they're always on the outskirts.

But if I'm on the train,
Does that mean they don't want to see me?
This is depression for beginners.


It is beautiful 
when the world makes you feel both small,
and yet inexorably connected to the very thing
That makes you feel
so small.


Caught between a rock
       and the most beautiful pair of breasts i have ever seen.
I'm searching for completeness inside her aesthetically perfect thighs
       as she glides down my stomach.
Because her tongue searches for the real me.
Prods, twists, longs, licks, manipulates, and bites.
       because she only found my body.
       and i couldn't find her soul.
And we'd make a cute couple,
       of people who were projecting their insecurities onto each other.



On a normal day
with normal thirst
i drink about 178/179th's of a glass of OJ.

And I'm not sure if i stop 
because my mouth gets too cold,
or because i can't breathe.
but usually, i do stop.

I thought maybe I should try drinking warm OJ
in order to cancel out the whole
"too cold" variable.
But then, that wouldn't be a normal day,
now would it?



The tic-tac-toe of my pen flows
through the X's of women, 
without feeling like I've won.

Strategizing, romanticizing, fantasizing

that it is the might be i thought it could be,
have been.  
the perfect 10.
(or at least a 9 with a great personality.)

Perhaps i fail 
not because i don't know in which box to go,
to O.
But that I'm playing 
the wrong game

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