I mean it.
It's getting too hard to know
that people read my words.
And love me for a minute
and never see the 22 years of boyhood
and booze
behind the computer monitor.

Or one amusing taking judo flips
and asking people to hit his fists
over and over
and I don't know why.

Addict state of mind,
children and soldiers.

I **** ladies and shake the hands of gentlemen.

Reinforce the stereotypical drunk boy.
Irish. Angry.
Poet.

But it's done.

I'm ****ing scared. That's the truth.
I only wrap around in words.
It was never art to me. It was being alive.

Poetry
to me
was and is just...
just standing naked in a room full
of people and not being ashamed of your body.

And, men, we worry about
the size of our *****.
Women must worry what their
hair looks like.

And the opposite never cares to either
because we are
we are so wrapped in ourselves -
our own need to be appealing.

So, yeah.
I'm ****ing scared.
I curse and can't...
can't just watch any longer.

They're gonna send me off.
Meds and ECT machines.
That'll burn out the cute part of my brain.
And what'll I do?
I'm not cute enough to get by just on my looks.

But I'll soldier.
Sad, though.
I am sad.

I find a fear and comfort knowing
where I'm going
they'll delete these posts before they're published.
And they will be forgotten.
Okay.

But
I am sad.

So I try to wrap it up.
Wish my parents did 22 years ago.
But then I might have ended up
a ****ing tree who didn't get to scream
how pissed he is at the world.

No, I don't regret a moment.
Blonde or a brunette.
I proved it.
My exception was
except the ones that read
never ever cared for me. And maybe didn't know how.

My novel is carved in fetishistic fantasies
of girls with scarred backs
and my "first day at school" story
wasn't my first panic attack.

You give someone the backstage pass
and just ****ing hope
they'll watch you while the lights are on
and the fake ones clap
and some even stand.

But they go to the buffet.
Not out of hunger... just boredom.
And I'm reminded again

why I dumpster dived
and sniffed H
and faked an orgasm
'cause I was so scared I wouldn't be good in bed.

I laugh now.
But cry.
Because, defyingly... and somehow...
I'm still laughing alone.

I don't want to be perfect.
The road ahead is painful
And there will be nothing left of this world when I
come
back to it.
And all you wonder is, "Did he mean to capitalize 'And' in this stanza?"

Maybe it's that young idealism...
but summer days
were sunnier
when I was even younger.
I wonder does it just go on getting worse.
Declining instead of reclining.

Yeah.
Blowjobs and boiling points.
Yeah,
that's tomorrow.
But today is the sorrowful show.
Where nobody ever shows anything.

So I watch J. Robert Oppenheimer quote the
Bhagavad Gita
when he explains dropping the first bomb
at the trinity center.

"'Now I am become death... the destroyer of worlds...'"

God.
Father.
Whichever order.
Why can't I just find a damned girl who knows why that quote means so damned much for me?

And **** Holden Caulfield.

ok, so we dont always need validation but, we find it in numbers. odd, even, it doesnt matter a one can mean just as much as thirty.

life is a long road to travel alone we live a million deaths and survive a million fears and if we are lucky, truly lucky some of us can write about it and all we can hope for is that someone, anyone take the time to look; the time to see between the lines...

i for one hope this will not be the last of your verse...

Loved this but don't want to be too condescending, you might fake an orgasm if I show too much bliss...Lmao

man this read like the inside of the jumbled mine of an adolescent about to cross over into adulthood when he realizes the more he learns about himself the more f.u.ck.e.d. in the head he really is....Love the answer you gave in reference to how man questions his masculinity when dealing with women. How can one ever be perfect in bed...go to sleep:)....awesome stuff young man, please do more free verse

youre stuff is awesome

Just a memory.

He couldn't stand for me
to look him in the eyes.
I never really knew all he had done.
It was what he did not say,
how he could not say.
When he finally blurted
and spilled, spewed,
leaving his scent,
He looked me straight
and realized,
he did not believe himself.

The angst, the confusion, the what ifs...you've revealed much in your telling...your writing sticks in my mind. Consider it a great compliment. I want to see more.

I hope you will continue when you are ready. tremendous work

Every once in a while someone comes along who has a way of expression that is not only emotive but that rips the very fabric to reveal something more ... I feel that in you. The great writers write in a way that resonates with the voice of others...

So many young poets manufacture angst and confusion because they 'think' that is what they are supposed to be writing about. I don't sense that in you. I sense an authenticity in your writing and I respect that. I feel the emotive power of it. And I look forward to seeing where you take it...

I reactivated my profile just to say that so you know I'm not just blowing smoke ...