For others Valentines day means love.
I've never had a good view on this day,
Mostly because I, myself destroyed the positive.
I meddled with my own love,
Contorted it into something I didn't recognize.
I sought after the culprit but never expected it to be me.
I looked for myself in the love once again,
But only found a empty hole, a canyon.
He was cool, sweet and nice.
I didn't realize it in time.
In my mind it crossed through over and over,
But in the end I was doomed to relive it again

I wish you all the best on this years Valentine's day! -Kaitlyn

in the penguins luck the furnace begins
at reprograming the news. Picture frames on 2 x 4s , three
photographs and glass bottles in the most decadent of matrimonies.
Three-hundred million dollars.
And the race riots show 'em who'll take the dampit from the mound of
Soot stained elements, canvas, trash bags, electric guitar riffs, giraffes, bingo, the drip-drop on the drop cloth. Easing into the new processor.

She who settles the wages of crickets with ether and single-barrel vanilla buckshot and maple. Incisors and cynical stereotypecastes and the shadows of the other mugged and loose canonical charades the worser and worsening play their ad keywords at in the sketchmakers many movements her dactyls fine and her fingertips many. Sweet lines of breathing and setting.

To those enjoying today with their other half,
I hope you get to celebrate next year's valentine's with the same person.

To those who are single,
Then welcome to the club,
My name's Bob,
So let's mingle.

To those with broken hearts,
Do not fear, forget your ex's lies,
For sooner or later someone else will make that heart race.
You won't notice it's poor condition, when you stare at their face
And give it to your new crush, while gazing at their eyes.

To be classifiable, she nervously applies the cake to her nostrils
While splinters stick in her fingertips. 30. To be a woman she
Harvests necrotic insects and dances in Warhol underpants.

I explain how gravity loves the catalogue of your unique hollywood
Romances. Each train takes a new storyline through the ****** treetops
And counterfeit addictions she poises herself in to seem attractive to
Each magazine under her daddy's workbench.

Being a woman is more than big ***** and paint for brains. Some skins Cling to the reels of the love language sprinting through historical Venetian street settings. I smoke ***** with wizards.

For the first time I witness the acatalepsy of the Irish, but narrowly
Passing the beguiling succor that renders the whim of persons
In the acronychal hours.

I'm telling you your hands are my new exoskeleton. I take to you
With the excitement of gravity. New denude photographs of pallor
Fleshes upstay the human trials we are blessed to share in this open sky,
Where I warn the blues of the sky to be jealous of these sciophilous Women who experience the unyielding pressure to feel the pleasures
Our confabulations offer acushla.

Hip Horray, it's Valentinesday
so you can find me in my room all day
locked up with bottles of ***** and beer
not going out since I know what awaits me out there

Couples walking hand in hand
Both with empty wallets, mostly the man's
whose reward will await him later tonight
If his girl decides that it's only right
to give him something, which he surely will like....

Anyway I don't really care
since I'm busy drinking ***** and beer
I'll probably be sleeping soon
and if i'm lucky then
I won't wake up before noon.
Hopefully this Valentinesday
will be over soon

I stopped writing love poems when I met you,
and started writing psalms instead: I took
your lips as the body and your hips
as the blood of a Holy Spirit you’ve been
hiding in your eyes, your eyes, your eyes
that I’ve been praying to
worship, worship, worship. Some would call
this feeling blasphemy, but since it is winter,
I am willing to take a little trip down to hell
to melt the cold in my bones, especially
if that means I can walk you back
to Heaven. But don’t take this all too seriously
because
I stopped writing love poems when I met you,
and started writing psalms instead: I took
your words as Gospel and raised them to my
tongue and matched it with yours to bathe
myself in your waters to wash away my sins-
and yes, I am a sinner, for I have undertaken
many a Crusade to prove myself worthy
of you. But the blood of my enemies is your
hips. The lips of those I have left for you is
your body. And still in your hell I find Heaven.
But
don’t take this all too seriously because
I stopped writing love poems when I met you.

I ruminate on
my failed affairs
I really am a mess of state
but a well maintained disaster
With clothes crisp
and shoes of leather
a Prada bag slouched
shedding Glitter as a scavenger’s trail

seven billion people
yet I manage
to ram together puzzle pieces
with mismatched contours
and hope for it to work

seven billion people
yet I manage
to fear a faithless future, aghast abandonment
carving my present,
a relentless sculptor

seven billion people
yet I manage
to severe portions of my entity
my soul, my being
and gift them
waiting on exalted reception
only for smirks and Smirnoff

So here I am
the mess of state
On the 14th day of the 2nd month
Trying to figure this out yet again
Yet again