She always telleth me
Baby
Just goeth with the floweth.

Baby looketh at me,
I'm flowing
I'm flowing
I'm flowing......

Now watch mine poetry flow
Ha ha ha....

A true friend doesn't care when your broke, being a *****, what you weigh, if your house is a mess, what you drive, about your past, or if family is filled with crazy people. They love you for who you are!

There are two different kinds of hopeless romantics
One keeps their romance behind padded walls
So others don't know what's going on

The other one is me
Who parades one openly
Hoist's her gracefully
On a cheribum seat feathered in gold
With a microphone in mine hand
Screaming

She's mine mi amour'
She's mine
She's mine queen
Leaveth her alone thou scowling dog's....

As tis I may maketh her embarrassed
During this process

She shalt thank me later
Privately behind those padded walls..

With an angel kiss
Upon mine wearied cheek...

Goodbye to my first love.

I have never felt this type of pain before.
It's a new pain, a pain that eats right into your bones and makes you question your very existence. It's a pain that hurts you so badly you would do anything to escape it.
No wonder they call it heartache.
It is literal.
I can taste the salt in my mouth from my tears running down my face.
I can still remember the sound of your heartbeat when you hugged me against your chest.
It hit me at that moment that it would be the last time I can hear your heartbeat. The last time you will hold me.
You are everything I love and everything I hate. Because that's the truth - I loved you. I still do. I always will.
I will never forget the happiness you gave me. I will never forget the way your hand felt in mine. I will never forget your smile, your laugh, your voice.
But **** how I wish I could forget.
It would help me heal if I could forget.
But then my biggest fear would come true: I would lose you. And above all things, I don't want to lose you.
I hate myself for hurting you. I hate you for hurting me.
The funny thing is, I never imagined this happening. I never imagined it being so difficult. I never imagined it hurting so ******* much.
I'm so sorry. I'm sorry for hurting you. I'm sorry for not being the girl you wanted. I'm sorry that I ended up being a disappointment.
I miss you so much it kills me. It kills me to know I can't call you mine anymore. It kills me to know I am no longer yours.
Was I not worth the fight? Did I mean that little to you?
I feel bitter but I know in the end that what we had was special. It was something I will treasure forever.
I don't regret it. Once time has healed us both, we will be able to look back and smile.

Thank you for the memories.

He said, “I want you.”
I then asked him, “Why?”
“You’re carefree about everything,
“And you always make me smile.”
I frowned at his answer
Not even knowing how
He had found it so quickly
Without figuring me out
I then knew that was the only side
He saw and would like to see
And I don’t want to pretend for someone
Who wouldn’t want the rest of me

The walls screamed poetry disease & ***
an inner whine like a mad machine -
dropped in a
cave of roaches
or rodents

The Computer
faces of the men

The wall collage
reading matter

The Traders (dealers)
~~~

I am a guide to the labyrinth
Come & see me
in the green hotel
Rm. 32
I will be there after 9:30 p.m.

I will show you the girl of the ghetto
I will show you the burning well
I will show you strange people
haunted, beast-like, on the
verge of evolution

-Fear The Lords who are
secret among us
~~~

Leaving the phone-booth, I was
Struck by a whiff of
the weird.
Insane old country woman
come to nag the haunts
of town
Hairy legs w/open sores.

From what swamp or under-rock
did you crawl to remind
us what we choose
to leave

What can I read her
What can I read her
on a Sunday Morning

What can I do that will
somehow reach her
on a Sunday Morning

I’ll read her the news of
The Indian Wars

Full of criss-cavalry, blood
& gore

Stories to tame & charm
& more

On a Sunday Morning
~~~

Some wild fires
Searchout
a dry quiet kiss on leaving
~~~

Like our ancestors
The Indians
We share a fear of ***
excessive lamentation for the dead
& an abiding interest in dreams & visions

after Gwendolyn Brooks*

Last night we got fried
While you stayed inside.
Can’t say we tried.
What’s your excuse?


Tonight we drive cars
Drunk to bars.
You’re stuck in the tars
Of that **** Spanish.

We’re good to go
You repeat “No.”
What a great show
bare-breasted ENCORE!

Have fun retiring
We’ll be expiring
Our children perspiring
At the thought of us leaving them nothing.

the dead poet of your romantic youth
left behind his melodious words in song
left behind his roadside fast eyes neatly packaged
still can purchase his dream down at the five and dime
still can find a tight leather pants version
of his photograph looking lizard like
in clean bollywood style

the dead poet of your romantic youth
lingers there in her eyes
she always said he was so rad
with her eighties big hair
the dead poet was in one of his many revivals
they would drag the poor old slob out
prop him up and take a picture
the dead poet lizard king
his words faded now
as his star on the walk of fame