It’s A F*cking Joke

He’s leaving today, and I guess he’s the only one who gets to be a miserable little fuck about it.

His heart tied around his finger like he’s running to hope, it’s a fucking joke.

But he can’t hold is head up at five in the morning, and he hasn’t been able to type a real text for months.

It’s a fucking joke, the lies we tell ourselves when we’re half dead and headed for broke. Pretending other people aren’t holding the rope.

‘It’s a hard road and I’m tired and I need my family by my side!’ Like I wasn’t his family once.

Bloodless brothers and mothers and sisters, signing tombstones before the skin ever gets cold, it’s a fucking joke.

He’s leaving today and I guess he’s the only one who matters
different state, a different love.

The kind you can control as you shove it down someone’s throat and pretend you don’t know.

I’m sorry I can’t live up to your standards, Boo!
I got my demons in my pocket and they’re whispering lies.

They’re on my side, I do this for me, it’s not about you,
It’s none of your business.

Nope! And it’s a fucking joke.

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What It’s Like To Be A Writer

You’re waiting for poetry to spill from these lips,
sweet kisses like soft droplets of water.
I’ve nothing to offer.
These lying hands have retired their grip.
Drawn from wells of ink,
you feast, you don’t sip.
Douse the pages with gas, light a match
and pretend to read,
write another line like it’s the first time.
You don’t give a shit if the book can’t breathe!
But I carry the broken hands of the writer in my heart.
My soul and my lips never part.
I drew out my pain and you smeared it with dirt and solder—
lead in your lungs, down on your knees
begging me, “please, write another novel!”
You don’t know me.
Scatter my ashes among lonely trees, take another drink
look up to the Father,
affirm my sins like you’re more worthy than me.
What?
I’ve nothing to offer, but
sweet droplets of water,
broken hands around my heart, I can’t breathe.

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It’s Bullshit

I walk with confidence at night and red cheeks the next day, but that’s okay, The world will forget me.

Make another joke, take another drink, pretend not to give a fuck what they think, It’s bullshit.

Self-esteem wasted like hope, beauty laced into the eyes of my soul, I can’t see.

Outside the sun bleeds and the birds are calling. I never hear them sing anymore. Damned up behind a closed door like my hands don’t work and I and I can’t find my feet.

It’s bullshit, neighbors with two-story houses, white picketed fences and golden dreams. Look at me.

She plays right by the side of the street, with no exit, her looking like love and clinging to me, what the hell does she see?

Mama, you did this me. It’s bullshit.

I need god to come help me find a way out, but I guess he’s been busy for thirty damn years now. Same as me.

Lost in this heat, dusting my knees, praying out,
“Please come and save us!”

Waiting for Him to love me. It’s bullshit.

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