pOETRY

I write poetry for myself.

Little BOY

My life is like this deep well, spilling over with women as perfect as my mom, its budging with bucket loads of god, and cold river water, vital sex, and short poems, and love profound enough to make you cry. I can not stop drinking from this well of my life, I am a self indulgent little boy.

Ring

I got this goddamn ring in my head that doesn’t stop. Sometimes it’s a loud symphony of nauseous noise. Other times it’s a soft tick of a woodpecker. But it’s always there, always ticking. It moves from my big ol brain and slithers through my arteries to my precious heart. I just have so much shit id like. Like to say, like to do, like to be. But this tick in my head just keeps going. Sometimes I feel like this beat breading my head has rhyme and reason, others it’s a mess of noisy nonsense. I wish it was quiet. I wish I could be.

Shes him

I’m floating on a cloud of gold, god spoken tomfoolery, skins like silk. She may be him. But she’s so much more independent and incredibly reliant. Green eyes that cut deep and a laugh to make a army fold. Every time she speaks I don’t know whether I’m just another one or the only one. She’s incredibly strange and stupendous and superficial. I don’t know if i should fallow like a puppy or run for my precious freedom. She’s perplexing.

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