Come to me.

There is something.
Something coming.
A poem.
A story.
A phrase.
A word.

I didn't fight this hard.
This long.

To let it go.

I'll wait.
I'll long for it.
And it will be beautiful.

Come to me.

Piss

6th grade: My best friend warned me. 

He said, "I don't understand why he invited you to his birthday party."

It didn't matter to me. I WAS invited. I was going to Brian's birthday sleepover. 

Me? The loner from Lawndale? I was going to go to ASCOT to watch cars race around a track with the most popular kids in the class. I was going to eat cake at night and pancakes in the morning, and hang out all night with the kids I wanted to be like. 

Me. 

I was invited.

And I was going to go. 

And I went.

And later that night, I found out why I was invited. 

I was invited to be pissed on. 

Quite literally.

Held down, and pissed upon.

So… from 6th grade until I graduated, I was not Chris, I was the kid who got pissed on at Brian Grosse's  birthday party.

Ask me about it. I'll tell you what happened. And I'll try and tell you how it felt to feel my warm tears mix with warm piss. 

I'll try and tell you how I lied and told by best friend how much fun I had at the party. (all the while knowing that HE knew… everyone did).

I'll tell you about how I told my brother that I was crying all night because I missed my dad. Which I did, but I also was crying because I was the kid they picked to piss on.  (I don't remember if I ever told my brother about the party. I don't think I did, because he would have fucking killed them).

You should also know, Brian's mom cooked amazing pancakes that morning. I'm fairly sure none appreciated them as much as I did. The salt of the butter played off of the sweetness of the syrup so wonderfully. 

And I still love pancakes.

I love pancakes as much as I hate Brian.

And as much as I hate piss.

1,000 Years

Statues are still erected. Paintings still stain the floor. But nothing really breaks through. No, no nothing... Anymore. Heroes are still out there. For the weak and for the poor. But nothing tames the cynics. No, no nothing... Anymore. Art, it still surrounds us. It's in my eyes and in my ears. But does it really matter. When we've given in to fear? Tonight I made a promise. To myself, and to my kids. I will never let it break me. Not for one thousand years.

Poetry

So, here's the thing
With poetry
It no longer means that much to me.

Or is that the way
I want it to be?

I know it means less to you
You made it clear
I understood

You read

You read

You turned away

You read

And turned away

Life goes on

Fuck we're all so busy.

So fucking busy

Oh, that doesn't rhyme

It started so well

Turned to hell

(Fuck yes, I can rhyme)

Good Pussy

For most of my waking life I thought words had the power to change. I wrote poems and dropped them into the lockers of girls I had a crush on. I kept a journal about my dead step-father and thought it mattered.

I wrote a play and performed it in front of the entire 7th grade. I thought it would make me more popular than the jocks. 

The jocks liked my play, and took the girls home.

I quoted important lyrics, and thought it would get me laid.

When that didn't work, I quoted important authors and thought it would get me laid. 

Neither worked (the thing that worked was being stupid and confident, and I used that a lot).

Even the girls that said my words were beautiful never followed through. They still wanted me confident and fake and funny. (And I gave them that, because I like pussy).

I hope they understand. Good pussy is easier to find than good words.

Finally... I found the truth. 

"Good pussy is easier to find than good words."

And that is the quote I want on my grave.

I try.

I try to say I'm happy
but it always comes out wrong

I try to say I'm angry
and you fucking sing along

I try to say I'm lonely
and you cling to every word

I try to say I'm simply wrong
and you claim that I'm absurd


So I think I'll feign delight
while inside I'm crashing down

I think I'll say I'm feeling good
while the room spins round 'n round

I'm sure I've said I'm okay
which we all know is a lie

I'm sure you've said "you'll be there"
but you're never by my side


when things crash, bleed, cry, crush, destroy, die, hope, bleed, puss, drip, scar.

Live with less

I showed you a difference.

It wasn't enough.

I gave you my pain.

It wasn't enough.

I gave you something,
No man will ever give you again.

It wasn't enough.

So, live with less.

Live with less.

Live with less.


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The title of the poem is irrelevant.

This is the poem.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

A word

Every single word, means every single thing
To me

For more than just the moment
You say that single word

A kiss is a promise
A touch is a word

And that word
Means every single thing

Every single thing

Every single thing

To me


Every single look, means every single thing
To me

For more than just lust
I said that single word

A kiss is a lie
A touch is a lie

And that lie...
...it is what I expect

Every single time

Every single time

EVERY single time.

Poetry

So, here's the thing
With poetry
It no longer means that much to me.

Or is that the way
I want it to be?

I know it means less to you
You made it clear
I understood

You read

You read

You turned away

You read

And turned away

Life goes on

Fuck we're all so busy.

So fucking busy

Too busy to care

Oh, that doesn't rhyme

I'm supposed to rhyme

Fuck

Fuck

Fuck

It started so well

Turned to hell

(Fuck yes, I can rhyme. Any time. So fine. On time. Be mine. Bitch... It rhymes)



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Violence

I don't mind violence.
If there's a reason.

I don't mind pain.
If there's a goal.

I don't mind hope.
Unless it's foolish.

I don't mind prayer...
If there's a soul.


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