Home Alone

Shoot.

Who'd have thought what I have not

because I'm caught in a knot in which my

brain is simply simple. Stumbling silly

on sancious syllables like a swanky

boy who's pants shan't fit his knees properly.

Properly?

Shoot, I knew it was you, you can't be too cool

to lose a game in which you can't be a loser.

Boozer, don't do drugs also dammit.

Cannit be cool to swig a juice box, I'd rather

not drink that concoction I caution myself over.

Grover, like Sesame Street.

Lets meet, after the after party, festive but snug in

a nest I digress and confess that that shirt was a mess

with my dress, can we try not to cry over it next time?

Shine.

Like a spoon.

Or the moon.

Or a white kid's ass for all I care.  

The Saints We Love

Golden fingers comb through tall trees like saints, the floor is it's pilgrims

Majestic flowers peer up to the golden hands – awaiting the caress; a loving

gesture of wonder. Earth wafts up (pines and soil, life and raw earth) and

kisses the gentle souls of any being. The Earth – alive and generous with

its ever eternal beauty. It's bestowed upon us pilgrims (which marvel at a

green draped surface) to look up to our saints with awed eyes and embrace

the kiss of heaven – hear their whispers sing.   

Symbolism Poem

Your eyes shine like the sun.

Its path finding my garden.

My everything.

You're there and flowers bloom.

My plants, my life

grows.

Your touch creates new life.

So take my hand and let's walk.

Walk into the sky.

Into where we'll live.

Before we leave – pick me a flower.

And forever I'll be shining too.

For What's Right

I stood up,

(well my hand did)

Anyways, I spoke up.

My neighbor,

the prissy girl in front

of me was wrong.

I said what was

right

justified

correct

I explained why I was right,

went through each step,

And proved my point.

It was honorific

because she was wrong,

“The answer is actually two.”

The Epochal Sophisticated Scentence

She could remember how much pain, which made her vomit accusations, they'd brought her soiled, battered, hell-bitten heart and rugged, lanky body; He recalls watching them, disgusted to a point of suiside but chained to the liability of pure hatred and worship of his own life, selfishly looking away from the woman as wolfs and men went rabid of a slate of meat; they remember, they reminis on the power they shoved down eachothers throats, growling with much anger and austere greed to steal life from the restless and devour their take, their over take, their meal for the hour; of swiftness they gagged on their own desire to kill and maim and avoided eyes, which aren't capable of viewing eachother, in fact- they crawl and worm on top of one another like a black ball of sickly maggots, but their souless eyes and gutteral growls portray their animalistic characteristics of Hell; they hear her pleas, they listen and plead back with mock sympathy; he still avoids watching, only turning his head to his feet which are no longer resembling a foot, it resembles his chewed up soul; he knows he's next.