It's empty.
Like me.
Lonely.
Unkempt where my parents left me.

With no message,
a resentful assortment of wreckage.
Acid hits split tormented neurons
as if burns or scars
could turn on a sweet girl under par.

But she's still putting.
But what's with the strutting?
Pretending the never-ending
pain of poverty
is robbing me
of the right of cutting?

Oh, yeah, I'm nothing.
Black hole soul.
The sun is done.
I'm on the run
but jogging slow.
Nowhere to go
but forward.
Backward is nothing but Xanax,
panic attacks,
track marks and a curse word.

I guess I first heard
on the line of a recliner.
Or, fine, maybe in the line
near the lone sign of this diner.
I'll redefine her.
Make her mine.
Take the smell of hell and shame
and claim it all and take my time.

This isn't that good.
Twists, good riddance to hoods.
Who would keep our streets together...
if the poor weren't born out of scorn
and silent bed-wetters.

No, this poem isn't that good.
Roam through the hood.
Good, I'm glad.
I'm been sold and had by holders.

And the day is over.

Now I can sleep.

And dream of crashing into cherries
and burying my feet.

Or red-heads dead
syringes said soft-spoken,
open coffin,
still the sting is poking.
Rings still open.
Never clicking.
Coming together
was our trade.
I made better sex with the weather.

nicely done...i mean, yeah, you are right its not that good

Sad. Beautiful and sad.

Your writing is always so full
Twists and turns and always
An underlying hint of sadness
or a madness if you will

I loved it!!!

I'm continually impressed
by your level of thought
in your poetry

extremely Lived, for one so Young..
The masterful interjections, passages from years past.
to this present time here we live..

Nice, web working, wink...

Honest, really nothing more to say on this.

Another awesome write.

Love reading what you write...

awesome again