i don’t know how to write poetry
i just toss a word salad
and add paragraph breaks
and make most of my lines start with and
have arbitrary indentation
And sometimes I capitalize
and sometimes i don’t
ill forget apostrophes and punctuation
and allow a lot of alliteration
i keep my rhyme scheme rather loose
because every time that i rhyme
i feel like doctor fucking seuss
i just don’t know how to write poems
i like them for a night and loathe them in the morning
It’s a series of one-night stands
and waking up out of love.
(this is a metaphor)
in the morning i try to f i x t h e m
but it’s NEVER RIGHT
editing is like trying to change your lover
into someone you’re happy loving
AND maybe that makes me shallow,
but I don’t think that I am—
if i were shallow
i might actually care
Day 308’s three random writing prompt categories were, “Written as a poem,” “Traditional,” and, “For the sake of it.”
Man, doing indentations in WordPress is too complicated to bother.
Jazz is a warm blanket
in the nighttime. I want to
cocoon myself in the
of it. I want to
bury myself alive
in the scent of pencil shavings
fresh off the
knife, of coffee beans
want to air-seal myself
inside with the
piano and the soft
glow of the screen, the Guinness
as black as the silhouette of the
at 10:22pm in
Day 263’s three random writing prompt categories were, “Chrysalis,” “Written as a poem,” and, “Buried alive.”
Yes. Just like this.
once upon a time
some still do.
not the middle class.
we’ve got hooks holding us
above the ghettos
and the gutters.
thank god for that.
thank god we don’t
have the freedom to
Day 232’s three random prompt categories were, “Cryptocurrency,” “Written as a poem,” and, “Starving to death.”
A complicated issue.
When Cecily Lebeau couldn’t see him, he was
the infinite cosmos, he was
the split atom, he was
the empty space between molecules
and between stars.
Past peripheral, blindness and lack,
with and within the unfeeling wind,
and nothing more.
When Cecily Lebeau turned her head,
He watched without seeing
as she faded from the table,
rose oil and clicking heels and the hanging words
“I never want to see you again”
Her redwine hair stopped at the top of her neck,
her spotted dress at the top of her legs,
her stockings at the top of her knees, and
her boots at the top of her ankles.
They knew when to stop
and so did she.
The tattoo was somewhere in between,
cradling the top of her spine
at the bottom of her neck.
It looked like a smile
It looked like the reflection of a black sunset
(not a sunrise)
in a freckle-flecked flesh-coloured sea.
But more than that it looked like a closed eye,
toothy rays of lashes reaching down.
and it could not see him any more than Cecily could
when she faced the other
Thoughts of her caused his stomach to implode in
even weeks after.
He missed her like he missed
in Santa Claus.
Day 222’s three random prompt categories were, “A bad breakup,” “A strange tattoo,” and, “Written as a poem.”
Sort of based on an old story idea I really need to finish one day.
i was a fool
no more an empress
than a devil
searching the world
for my emperor
a hanged man
lost in death
where i had not the strength to follow
Today’s three random prompt categories were, “Strength,” “Tarot cards,” and, “Written as a poem.”
Man, doing the poem prompts ain’t easy. It was much longer, than I spent most of my 15 minutes chopping it all down.
What if I don’t want to walk
in a winter wonderland?
What if I want to fly
above the clouds and the snow
where I could watch it all fall
shimmering in the nightlights of
And if I swooped beneath
a soaring snowman
collecting skysleet camouflage
tobogganing on hills of wind
alive as I could be.
Imagine all the snowflakes
I could catch on my tongue.
Imagine the snowballs
hurled like hailstorms
from this laughing man in the sky.
You never see Superman do these things.
A selfish Santa Claus
on Christmas Eve
with no presents
Just an open sky
where the snow hasn’t settled
That’s where I want to be.
The snowflakes and the stars.
Looking down on shoppers
and Christmas stress.
Floating in a winter
Today’s three prompt categories were, “Written as a poem, “Winter wonderland,” and, “Human flight.”
Been a while since I’ve done any poetry. It probably shows.
Winter is basically over. I’m starting to miss it.
It’s a dark thing, blinking in the night.
Night is not blind. Not blind.
The blinking is winking, winking, can’t you tell?
You’ve never looked at the right time.
How can that be?
One night you will see the way they see.
Look up and watch how they spin.
A billion floating visions envisioning you,
a billion and two.
You’ve only seen the backs of them.
You’ve never seen the pupils before.