I don’t always know right from wrong I don’t choose to write
it helps me get along.
“Cold world” they say, cackle and scurry on.
It’s a hen. No it’s a mouse. Its a rat. It’s a beast.
It’s a feast or famine situation and I’m lost in the circulation.
The beauty is gone
She took the last train home, and this fairy tale is lookin’ like an epic fail.
Was it dangerous? I don’t know.
Could it have been prevented?
At the end of the day, the day ended bad
I write because it helps my feelin’ sad.
“There’s always tomorrow”, but tomorrows no better, the clown lost his nose
I’m feeling under the weather.
You’re supposed to hear a voice in your head, right?
where is mine?
where is my mind?
I can’t hear myself I’ve lost consciousness I’m inoperable
This is impossible.
Her flower print shorts beg for you to deflower her. What if I were her?.
When my dad got sick I didn’t eat for weeks
tossed the sheets, I lost some sleep.
Poetry is the food that fueled my survival. To this day-
She is vital.
She helps me digest my emotions and strengthen my opinions.
When I’m lost in the rubbish she helps me fight for forgiveness.
It doesn’t matter the day or the reason sometimes it hurts just to keep breathin’.
Poetry helps me kick off my shoes
take a snooze
ditch the booze.
I write down my feelings
and she helps me feel safe.
finally a little place to escape.