My bass guitar  & I
It's a weird relationship I know,
See, I can slap her, but all she does is sing.
See, I can pull her strings, but she sets the rhythm.
See, I can run my fingers down her neck and she moans so ****.
It's a weird relationship I know,
But **** do I love it,

How we intertwine in the heat of the moment,
To create a song  you can feel in your chest.
How we play with each other, until we reach our peak.
And slowly fade away with one last grunt.

I laugh my *** off
just thinking about
ripping a hole
in your fat sweat pants
until I got a hair caught in my throat. (I'm choking.)

   You OK?

well.. I'm having a coughing fit.
(I'm turning all red.)

    Can I help?

I'm drinking a cup of water.    
(running to the kitchen, choking wildly fumbling
through the cabinets, looking for your cups)

    Come back to me, lover.

I'm washing the cup now?

I am a lover of all things dark and brooding
the somber ambiance, for me, is quite soothing            
don't get me wrong, it's not all black and white;
my opinions and clothes alike.

I've actually come to like mustard yellow
And would totally rock a look that's pastel and mellow.
But this section of the spectrum
That will never have my affection
Is the color orange;
I cant even rhyme it with anything.
                                      
Red and yellow looked daunting at first;
Each color, the embodiment of an ouburst.
Wearing these colors that are so luminscent
To appear as though my soul is effervescent,
To appear as though i am an image of thrill;
Faking it 'til I make it, if you will.
Contrastingly, its combination's thrill and effervescence
Is rather shrill and of terrible essence

There's not much that I can compare it to
Other than your tangerine-scented shampoo
And falling leaves in autumn:
Like how I fall when you hum.
Seemingly soft sincerities
Have become dazing disparities.
What was once easy on my eyes
Now is a hue that I despise.

my soul washed upon a beach
after many years at sea
it is bleached and hollow
worn too smooth
like shells that batter each other
along the shoreline
and in the early hours
when the Sun provides enough light
you find me
and place me in your bag
with stones and lost treasures
that you would later admire
and add to your display
or simply toss aside

I walk out into the good 'ol twilight,
Afraid of nary a scary thing bright:
But my silhouette's greater height,
That, that makes me begin wonder,
As I shudder cold in the frigid night;
And throw my dim echoes well in sight
Of my widened wandering eyes tonight;
And now I shall box my shadow asunder.

I love you
that in itself
is poetry

I log into my blogger,
I look at all the poems that I've ever written,
On my phone, on my math book during class, or scribbled in a hurry.
I search for the perfect one I can give,
To get a message back from Hello Poetry.

The first one I see is the one I wrote for my brother,
He left last year, I miss that fella,
I hope college is nice to him.

The next one is about the season ending, stars and constellations, and career choices,
I wonder what I was thinking while writing it,
No wonder my mum thinks I have ADHD.

The third one is a poem called 'maybe',
I remember when one of my best friends said she loved it,
I remember that that was the first time I showed my poems to her,
I was so happy.

As I see the fourth one,
I think this is stupid.
All these poems are old now,
I don't want to give these.

I spend a few minutes thinking what I should do,
I think and think,
I wonder what they'll like.
I wonder if the person who reads this poem,
Is a girl or a guy.

I continue thinking,
Rest thoughts aside.
Suddenly I realise,
Oh yeah, I can write.