I'm not a poet
I'm a self proclaimed genius with a pen
with thoughts running through my head
like gazelles in the plains of Africa
and I'm just waiting for a lion
to come swallow them up
and finally give me a good
idea
a good idea that rests on your
mouth like a Listerine patch
and comes out in a cool minty breath
a good idea that is so
easily shared amongst the masses
and is of the ability to make them
cry
laugh
smile
think
but how can I make them think
when I can't even think of a good
idea
besides, who is this 'them'
that I'm trying to please?
and how can I please 'them'?
with a notebook full of
scribbled out sentences
and torn out pages
both results of my rage
and yes, I write a lot about writers block
because writers block is so evident to me
and I see a whole lot of words
like butterflies in a field
and I'm without a net to catch them
and I just stand there staring
wishing I could piece them all together
but, if I write about writers block often
then is writers block something to write about
therefore I don't have writers block?
I don't know
I'm not a poet
I'm just a teenagers with writers block
just trying to catch butterflies

-Slang

He has the moon in his eyes.
This boy who stands still
as the others rush by.
His stop is brief -
he just wants to have a look around
But by the time he turns back,
the others have turned the corner.
A corner.
Some corner.
What corner?
He turns down every street,
every side alley
but finds only the cracked lanes
of empty sidewalks.
Lost, he continues to wander
searching for someone
who knows his way
or at the very least
is just as lost.

Look at a toe,
your own toe, look pick one and stare,
Your toe is nice,
your toe is neat, they make the foot complete
But each toe,
has his or her own personality,
a poem about toes beyond banality,
times  ten
toe jewelry,
toe jam, toe spacers,
pointed toed shoes
without laces, to which
your toes
make faces,
a grimace here, a corn there,
and blistering anger comes to a head,
nail polish, and remover,
a different colour every other day
to sooth her,
toes trap sock lint,
but whatever your toe state is,
whatever you dress them in
or how often
you walk them undressed
(your toes I mean)
I must admit all of your
toes are much prettier
much more handsome,
more idyllic
than mine,
I am the owner
of the ugly toes.


©DWE092013

You taste like smoke
Smell like cologne
Skinny jeans
You got it going on
My baby has tobacco lips
Sweet pink cherry lips
With a inside taste of my dreams
One kiss and you're hooked
Put your fingers through my jean hoops
Pull me closer so I can hear your breathing
Kiss me like you never want to let me go
Baby I love you so
It sounds like a song
But its not
Yes my hair smells like strawberry's
You say that all the time
Can't get enough of my coconut skin
I know you're hooked
Just like me, we're in this together
This love is forever
Sweet ******* on those lips
Come a little closer so I taste those sweet lips
Sweet Ecstasy when you touch me
Sweet bliss when you release me
Make me yours
I am yours
Your are mine
All mine
Bite my lip
Pull my hair
Say you love me forever
Those eyes how they crave me
I see how you undress me
Come a little closer if you want the real thing
Those jeans look mighty fine on those body
Looking all hot with those tattoos
Sweat dripping from those black hair
Yes baby make me yours, Now.

I awoke before the sun did rise,
my muddled mind and blurry eyes,
found beauty in those inky skies,

Subtle streaks of gray and black,
a love letter that's been stained and smeared,
slowly with the rising sun,
light and color did appear,

Brilliant orange, glowing gold,
it spoke of fall and coming cold,
a brilliant effort made by the sun,
beauty with a fading warmth,
whispering that summer's done,

Watercolor waves, horizon shore,
swimming in those cresting clouds,
each sunrise unlike the one before,
on mornings like this, the Silence  is Loud.

Well you'd rather feel
Vibrant and wired
Live fast,
Die young,
regret nothing.

you won't slow down, not for
anyone (who cares what they say, right?)
Soaking in the sunlight
trying to become an illusion.

someone like you hasn't got time
to sit around and talk about songs you used
to like
and
people you haven't seen
in such a long time.

I suppose I liked you better when
you'd get up early with me to watch the sunrise
falling asleep on each other's shoulders
waiting for our lives to begin.

but now you'll only watch the sunrise
if you've got 20 different pills in your gut,
a cigarette hanging from your mouth.
You've looked better.
the sun and I miss you.