You always wonder why I don’t write anymore. Doesn’t love fill one’s heart with creativity, your eyes have asked me this question more often than not. But they, and you, forget that I am a sketcher of apathy, a painter of battles, a depicter of chaos. The stories come around as a calling to bleed my heart out, but tell me how can I draw something without the inspiration of revolt?
This brings us to your judgment of me not being a writer good enough. To this, I say that you can fuck off.
Beer bottles and thongs
This poem is devoid of meaning and shape,
Don’t expect any, else you’d be blamed.
Sometimes the verses will be three lines,
Other times they’d be five.
Or four or two or one,
Pick out any number, and I’ll try.
I’d start by listing out the things I love,
The title mentions a couple,
And might that I add some.
Whiskey and weed might be two delightful mentions,
Throw boobies and thighs in the mix for carnal pleasures.
Football isn’t very far and comes closest to sex,
Compare scoring a screamer and the climax.
I can see your face contort as you read this poem,
But you know I matched your challenge and raised you one.
This really doesn’t make sense but I want people to know,
I know poker lingo and card tricks and all yo!
As I lay lying the ashtray fills up,
The bottles stack but I can’t get enough.
I feast my eyes to some internet porn,
Once the business is done, movies catch my attention.
And there was a great man whose reminiscence I remember,
Of leaving booze and women and the pain he gathered.
So my selective brain keeps his teachings to heart,
Of love and life and shit of the <3.
And of empty cartons and a well lived life,
Of beer bottles and the thongs divine.