I’m done
Just one
And that’s all
I know
It’s small
Or thin
Let me begin
To write longer
And a bong hit
So you know
I give two shits
And one big pussy whip
For fucking up
It sucks
So suck it up
I’m done
Just this one
For fun
To see if I can rhyme
To the beat hits
And this feeling from winner
To defeated
And the thoughts or fears to be
On the death that’s near to me
Or not clear to me
Put me in the box
Struggling and alive
I won’t survive
It’s offensive
Or I’m sensitive

I Thought

I thought I was trending
But I’m not
Someone was defriending
Friend’s all I got
Tears from garlic
With bread and pepperoni
Why was I sarcastic
I feel like a jibroni
I thought I was getting lots of likes
But I was writing a tonne though
And the ratio of poems to likes is low
I thought I was insane
But I was just thinking of the past
The psychosis did not engulf me
And made the months speed by fast
Like a game of Frogger
I thought I was I writer or poet or something
But turned out just a dime in a dozen blogger
We go to the church
For some divine health
Truth is – we define ourselves

The Hair In My Brain

The hair in my brain
The love in closets
Burnt beyond insane
Beyond my own sperm deposits
The green in my blood
And hanging sausage
And the wads of flesh
About my belt
I’m a stoner and loner
And writer of selfless and selfish
Looking after my follower
A loyal student in Belfast
I take an incredible look
At the inside of every credible book
And turn all the poems into a sewer
And the criticism I should write fewer
And laughing at Cable Guy to soothe me
A Canadian
With a staunch look into mental health and friendship
Based on that movie
The hair in my brain
The red marks on my poems and thrown stones
And criticism and cynical tone
I invent as narrator
As if the voice of a follower is my own
Like a character
In my poem

Feeling Blue

Feeling blue
And true – as well
It’s rude to write
If you don’t feel well
But what matters rudeness
Think I’ll be happy enough
To be productive enough?
To be happy enough?
For life to be worth itself
Never mind that – I don’t get it myself
Feeling blue
And true
Poems don’t release it
The anxiety is not appeased worth shit
And you’ve written enough
Time to get exercise, write songs and make breakfast
Quit writing this mess
This accident and chance
This realizing aloud
And word dance
Feeling blue
And true
There is not much I can do
But what I set to do
Maybe I did something wrong that I can’t remember
It all seems foggy in December
But doesn’t matter
Feeling blue
The way I am used to feeling I guess but
(Probably not
Sorry for the mundane poems it’s all I got)

I Want To Live Mostly

I want to die help me
And I say to you
I want death
Counsel me
You’re glaring so fuck you
I want to wrap the poem around my neck
And say “fuck you” in a suicide note
I’m always writing about death
So I’ll let you know that I find some release in the joke
I want to live
This is fiction – a recital
I’ll let you know
You don’t comment and ask if I’m suicidal
I want to counsel you to forgive
And not “leave that to God”
I want it screwed up as I am writing and you should
And loosened
I want the bruises of someone good
I deliver and publish this note
It’s joking
And come in the room with a roach
In my pocket
Still smoking

I Find The Way

I find the route disturbing
I turn
And keep turning
My hallucination is scared
He turns to me burning
And says
Stop turning
I find the way isn’t at all Jesus
I don’t know how it could be
Your light has gone out
What redeemer doesn’t work for you
Will work for me?
I find the road bumpy with rocks and lumpy
And listening
Even the river talks about me
I find the path bad
The guide completely mad
And my own heart feels sad
That nothing is to be had
That beneath the dirt I will be buried
Or I’ll be burned
But it won’t be me of course
It will be my corpse
Myself I end
Existence is too short
And right now I don’t know but
You take a selfie
And seem to pretend you don’t end
And you want me to
But I don’t see how that would help me