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Showing posts from 2014

Poetry is for mental cases, lovebirds and the dead.

Dirty needle scratching the record player.
Motel of choice tonight, off the 405 laying under stiff sheets blaming it on me, vilified and denied.
It’s the way, shrug shoulders, develop mental disorders and smoke more cigarettes, tasting tin-ny regret on the tip of my tongue that wants to lash out and give it to you, blow down your house, suck that ego out of your thick head and beat your hard heart into sense but it’s all my fault.
So I kick the wall, realize I’m not so hurt, but feeling empty in a sepia hollow way, well is running dry again and no one wants to tread this territory anymore, either time to move on or succumb to the situation at hand.
I’m tired but I’m more tired of listening to everything you think you know about me misspoken while you neglect everything I’ve clearly said.