i have many saved drafts
my fellow poets
and i believe you may have some too
at least
if you are a poet like me
there are many kinds of poets
for we seem to be incapable
of staying in a box
but if you are a poet like me
you have more drafts than published works
and your drafts are alive
and breathing
shaky breaths
in and out
trying to keep their heart beating
to stay written for a few moments longer
before their maker
presses delete

my poems call me cruel
and i know i am
poems are not meant to hide in the dark
even if they are cheesy and childish and revolting
an infestation of misplaced and uncertain words

even then
poems should be heard

sometimes i wish i was a different kind of poet
sometimes i wish i wasn't cruel
sometimes i wish i was kind
to my poems
and perhaps to myself

warm soft hugs
like gold hued ships
bathed in the setting sun

arms restrict
like drowning dark ships
the panic has just begun

i eat my grin and my stomach still growls, it’s hungry for love. i chew off my finger nails and swallow them to pick my teeth. i say ‘say ahhhhh’ in tongues.

i tell the cops i’d stop dragging my drugged feet if they’d let my hands drag through the mud too. a sort of camaraderie.

i take the wasp spray and target my shirt and huff hard enough. afterwards, i don’t feel a buzz.

they ask me why i haven’t been taking my meds. i tell them i take after i give, and laughter is usually what i offer them, which they take as an insult.

when the doctor comes to visit, all i hear is “it’s knife to see you.” and my stomach wants out. surgery is not the part where they take something away, but rather when they put the emptiness of living back.

remember all the games we played? you all were so ahead of the shame even though none of us could help ourselves.

if i could beg a favor, i would beg on my needs, without fear or forgiveness, to call it a night. but it has to be the last.

there’s a farm that hosts swing dancing lessons in the ballroom. we all watched the guests from the bushes and i felt my moods winning first place.

i drilled a peephole into my wall and wait at night for an eye to fill it, just to feel a change of seen.

i fill up the glass until i taste the rose tint. it’s thorny but i’m guaranteed to make my bed in the morning. my one regret in life is that i have known someone else’s primrose path.

knifely put. give me the nice back and i can prove all the questions you've been dying to ask.

If I knew anything I would have just kept quiet.
If I knew anything I surely would have never met you. I get in these lapses, I forget about the soft landing and the harsh freezes.
I wish I knew my self more. For what reason do I look out this window, with black lungs which spell my fortune.
I don't need to know.  I wander along to my  big red bed.
   So many roses .  It's the same

This one's for the internet which killed my baby and laid eggs in my eyes , I think.  It laid me down and tied me with wire and stuffed my mouth, my cute mouth, my chapped lips. I got up and got water.
She laid there too, next to her skeleton. My ghost now disguised. They killed her and threw away the parts that I loved. I live in an endless loop. The film decayed. Keeps playing. They played with my heart. My sad heart.  I have no options now but to wait. I *******  wait