my own

 

 

I am too lazy to reformat, but I needed to post.  This was written in Word and this is how OD does it with word, whatever.

 

 

when I write

I tend to let the words flow

down

the page,

like spilled water

or the tears I’ve cried too much of

drying on

wrinkled paper

or the short in keyboards

because

how often does one truly use

paper

there’s no line limits,

no word cap

and I

vomit my life across the screen

not caring

if someone reads

or doesn’t

and not giving a damn if they like

or don’t

not writing for the publicity

writing because

four white walls,

in white suits

terrify the shit out of me

I can manipulate the poetry

and leave myself

vulnerable

but any way you twist it

no one

knows me

unless I let them slip between

the provocative bruises

and delightful

little freckles,

they can see the ocean in my eyes

but they hear nothing

as if holding

seashells

to deaf ears,

its only done for the benefit

of a freeze frame picture

people peek

through blinds, watch the way

neighbors

stroll naked in evenings

or even fight nude,

with breasts bouncing with each

stab of the finger

and his penis

shriveled

in anger, as if the water

is too cold

and then you have others

fucking on sofas

while watching politics

out of the corners of their eyes

and I wonder

does that really get them off –

or again

is it the idea of a fight,

adrenaline rushes to the southern

regions?

we infiltrate the lives of others

like bottom-feeders

trying

to let it be known that we

are better than them

but we aren’t,

instead allowing ourselves

to get caught up

in the idiosyncrasy of someone

not us,

poking fingers

in open sores

asking like children do,

does that hurt?

and I wonder why we want to see

the pain

its not appreciated,

most times it doesn’t even make

a person

thankful for the good

instead it’s the one-upmanship

festering inside –

too many times society

leaves much

lacking,

and I wonder who wakes up

and smiles a the damn world anymore,

instead they pull the covers

over themselves

fingering

life until they get off

like I said, I write,

I don’t care

the length,

don’t need the eyes to peer

and the fingers to point

and assume,

people infiltrate me

when I let them

and not a moment before

damned if I’m not tired

of the shielded

eyes,

the silent shakes of head

that figure they have me

figured out

and even if they do –

fuck ‘em

I’m one of those bitches that wake

with a grin