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
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