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


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