Is me good at poems?

I did two open mics this week and read off some poems. I think it went pretty well and I think I’ll keep doing it. Anyways, here’s a poem for you guys to read.


#???-Lone wolf

In lust or lack there of,

I ask,

Does the lone wolf not get lonely?

Howling at the roof,

Howling to be next to you

In a rut,

Or drowning up above

The river in whiskey

I ask,

Does the lone wolf not get lonely?

And what of monks

Or holy fathers?

In love,

Or lack there of,

I ask,

What will I know of your fragility

Oh so mysterious

To a lone wolf such as me

In lust,

Or lack there of,

A lone wolf lies lonely,

Howling at the roof

Howling to be next to you

In a rut

Or drowning up above

The river in whiskey

A lone wolf gets sooo lonely,

As do monks

And holy fathers

In love or lack there of

Your fragility went on a mystery

Oh so sweetly killing me


F**k you, I’m trying.

Its been a little over a month since the last time I’ve published something. So, here’s a little something to wet the chops of the wolves who have been barking at me to release more poetry(which is a joke because no one gives a fuck).


#???-My most political poem

These men

with bellies that look

like fat pig bellies,

and wallets that are

much fatter.

They have their

overseas bank accounts

and wives that are

like plastic models

with plastic smiles.

These men

who wouldn’t lift

a single one of their

immaculate fingers

for a drunk

idiot junkie

laying in a gutter.

They wouldn’t know him,

would merely


at the idea of his



the very men

with the power,

all of the

fucking power,

are the very men

who’d think you

should be ashamed

for not making more


These men,

these fat,




They try to appear

like the good guy,

the guy who’s gonna

make us all fat winners

just like them,

and then when we

look away,

they shove their

sausage fingers,

their immaculate

sausage fingers,

into our pockets

and take what we have,

because their the winners

and they can do that.

These men,

these fat, piggy,


fucking winners

know what their doing

in their game.

So I suppose,

we’ve just got to

play a different game

if we want to win.


#???-The dumps

We’ve got a place

for things we

don’t want anymore

and we call it

the dumps.

We put all of our


in the dumps,

and we’ve all

got trash

in the dumps,

even the hippies have


in the dumps.

and we all know

about the dumps,

but rarely

do we talk about

the dumps,

who wants to

talk about

the place

pieces of our lives go

after we’re done with them?


#???-PinkPeachRose dreams

I’ve got the pink dreams,

the ones about the peach.

I need a finger

running down my back

and I need my hand

wrapped around a waste.

I need sweet dirty grimy sweet sensual.

I need curves

and softness and


I need roses and flowers

and the thorns that come with them.

I’ve got the

pinkpeachrose dreams.

Free poetry to be read by anyone at anytime.

Hey guys. Just a little poetry. The one titled “my writing is great” is probably one of my favorite poems that I’ve written recently.




It has to hurt if it’s too heal

and by god, it must be healing

cause it hurts

and if it hurts now,

it may very well only hurt more from here,

but if it hurts more,

that means it’s healing more

and FUCK

does it hurt,

but it hurts so good,

and one day it’ll be healed,

but sometimes,

you just gotta embrace the hurt,



it’s gonna hurt,

but it will heal.


#???-just a poem

I’ve got my depressing poems,

heart break poems, and love poems.

I’ve got the poems about poverty, failure, and suicide.

Addiction, drugs, alcoholism, sex. I’ve written those ones too.

I’ve written lyrical poems and I’ve written poems that are short stories.

I’ve written about cats and dogs and it raining.

A couple are about American football, and a few about jerking off.

This isn’t one of those poems.

This poem isn’t about any of that stuff.

I’m not really sure what this poem is about.

I suppose it’s just a poem.


#???-my writing is great

Oh, baby,

in my writing,

you are absolutely crazy about me,

and you can bet that I’m just as crazy about you.

Baby, in my writing,

We’re waking up next too each other, in each other’s arms,

and it’s only dawn when our eyes open,

but it’s nearly noon before we leave the bed.

Baby, in my writing,

We go out on a date,

and afterwords get some drinks.

We stumble through the brumal night,

carrying each other back to your place,

or maybe mine,

and we make sweet, sensual, love.

Oh, oh, oh,

baby, baby, baby,

in my writing,

I’m the perfect lover,

and I make you cum every time.


in my writing I’ve had many, many lovers,

and I’ve died at least half a dozen times.

In my writing, I’ve been rich and homeless and a looser and ugly and,

well baby,

my writing is all great and everything,

but my favorite part about my writing,

is how much

you love me

in it.


#???-Jim will never read this.

Jim didn’t get picked up

and the poor fucker

was probably


Alone, and with a hemorrhoid.

And no one gave a fuck,

but Jim told me

that he wasn’t going to quit.

The guy had lost.

Life had beaten him.

He lost.

He lost his mind,

he lost his body.

And no one gave a fuck.

But Jim told me

he wasn’t going to quit.

I guess that meant something to me

Know Yourself-2.0

A year ago yesterday I shared a blog post called “know yourself”. It was a “rap” I had written inspired by the song “feeling Whitney” by post Malone. It just so happens that I edited this very poem a few days ago with a friend. So, I present you with, know yourself-2.0


#???-Know Yourself-2.0

I’ve been doing my own thing since

Oh, I can’t remember

Sit up in my room, writing lines

of how I should be living better

pull from a cigarette

drink tell I can’t feel nothing,

I’m in love with substance

Can’t fall asleep unless I’ve drank a coke and whiskey

puffing herb hoping to feel a little something

looking for a girl?

man, it’s not important

They say you gotta know yourself,

time to start learnin,

pack my bags and hit the road

boy you best get workin

Spend some time alone,

I’m not making much money

wear a smile in my photos,

a frown up in my bedroom

I’ve been doing my own thing since,

oh, I can’t remember

they say you gotta know yourself,

time to start learnin

pack my bags and hit the road,

boy you best get movin

Not all of my poems are sad, you’re just reading them with the wrong eyes.

I filled a notebook recently. One I’ve been working on for a while. It’s the second notebook I’ve ever filled, front cover to back cover, with poems. Pretty good feeling. Now I need a new notebook. But here’s a couple poems though.

Enjoy! Continue reading “Not all of my poems are sad, you’re just reading them with the wrong eyes.”