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This guy at the bar the other night
tells me my poetry aren’t poems
but rather songs
as he takes my phone
and begins singing them to himself.
These are great man, he says
really good stuff here,
as he sings, flipping back his hair.
And I don’t stop him, because why
would I stop someone
who’s turned my pain into pleasure
when I’ve tried so hard to do just that.
Hell! This guy’s voice ain’t half bad!
Confusion
with a thirst
of stale bitterness
is no reason
to poison someone’s
happiness.
My bad.
There will always be poverty
and powerless men, who feel nothing
towards people just trying to exist.
Believe it or not it was a club to join,
Till 1955,
all it took, was a .45 colt, a river, a fan.
But it (is) not that world anymore, is it?
I want to say no, but Jackson’s slaying of elderly men?
Born of the same bullet that lay Evers dead.
It’s enough to make you want to blind your eyes, it’s enough to know better than to blind your soul.
So as there will always be poverty and powerless men,
there must never be closed,
an open coffin.
Strange! Bohemian’s more like it,
how it’s all so curious
but there isn’t a cat in sight.
I think I’ll stick around a little longer—
just for kicks, another Scott…Another.
Good nights with decent people, that’s all.
As a kid I used to be afraid of seeing ghosts.
Now as an adult, I only see the one’s
I’ve created. But I don’t fear them anymore
knowing I was the one they could see through
all along.
It’s odd, how so much can happen in a day.
It’s sad and almost surreal, really. You can spend so much time
waiting, and healing. Then one day, it’s over.
I knew I didn’t dream it,
as nausea fills the morning.
Sleeping well as a ranch hand,
counting sheep all afternoon.
I guess a boy can’t cry wolf
anymore, even when he’s dying?
Time to sink back
to the far side of the moon?
Nah, this soil will do.
So it goes.
Fill me with whiskey,
I’ll spill some truth.
Fill me with time and no one,
and I have filled pages with reason.
Reason enough to explain the lies
I tried to convince myself true.
My most honest fiction, in truth
is all that I can do.
If you
can be
comfortable
with you’re ugly,
you can be
everything
they said
you weren’t.
Words Of An Average White Male 