Your kisses
were the fangs
of a snake in Eden
nibbling gently
on my adam's apple
until the skin became purple
and broke
dripping red with juice from the
sweetest fruit
your daddy told you to never
touch –
but it's just so
goddamn delicious
isn't it?

I hiss
when you lick it
and whisper
“you're such a good
little bad-girl”
and you hiss
with me
while you giggle
curling and flaunting your lips
like a set poisonous
pink fangs
deadly enough to kill a man
with just
one
kiss –

I trusted you

but trusting in love
is no different
than trusting
in Satan.

Not a Masterpiece | Power Poetry

Not a Masterpiece | Power Poetry

 I've been driving

for twelve hours

aimlessly, and alone,

despite knowing or caring

that I didn't have enough gas

to run away from home

or even enough

to bring me back.

So now, running on empty,

and 800 odd miles away from home

with fifty dollars

crumpled up in my pocket,

grandpa's pistol in the glove box,

and enough alcohol on my breath

to get my locked up

for a long, long time...

I decide it's best to stop for the night

or forever.

So long story short

the only room I could find

for $50

is a fantasy suite

in a sleezy motel

out in the middle of

butt-fuck nowhere.

So with an empty tank in the parking lot

and an empty tank in my soul

I check in

alone,

and lay on the filthy, heart-shaped mattress

suspended and swinging above the floor

by chains

and I stare at my pathetic reflection

in the mirrors on the ceiling

while inhaling the residual perfume of nicotine

from the lungs of lovers

and dead hookers.

There's no tip-toeing around this

so I’ll just say it

because it's not like anyone's listening –

I fucking hate myself.

I haven't even a scrap of love left

for this person I've become,

and all the little crumbs

of self-compassion

have been swallowed by freeway rats

who're now laying dead

with broken throats

in this trap called life.

While I was writing just now

I began to think of this poem

as my suicide note

that only the slut

at the front desk will read...

So while I began searching my soul

for some profound quote about death

I remembered

that I forgot grandpa's pistol in the car,

and now I think

that this is the story of my life.

And the plot, all summed up,

is probably something

like this;

“either someone up there is looking out for me

or someone down there wants me to suffer.”

I'm not sure which one it is,

but maybe, just like my favorite stories,

there’s some room

for interpretation.

It just seems like everything

is such a goddamn contradiction

especially tonight

sitting alone in the “Cupid's Arrow” suite

with what I'm almost sure

is a bloodstain on the carpet.

Tonight I just wish

that the little diaper wearing motherfucker

would break in with a .22

point it to my chest

and blow open my heart, too.

But he won't

he ain't real,

nothing is as far as I’m concerned,

because for all I know

this soul that burns with words inside my chest

could be nothing more

than just the product of a billion years

of evolution.

But right now I don't give a fuck

what is

or what isn't

because I do know one thing

for damn sure –

and it's that I won't be killing myself tonight,

and this twisted little novel of mine

will keep on going,

for a hundred more chapters

or for half of a page...

but I don't care either way

as long as I can dilute my blood with

this whiskey

and close my eyes

for the night.

 I've been lost

since before I could even walk

and now it makes me sick

that I can run, jump,

and rip the moon down from the sky

if I wanted....

but still wouldn’t know

where to go with it

or how to get there.

So tonight I drank

for the first time in months

and wished

on the only star

bright enough to pierce through the smog

of the D –

on that one little dot that says

“You are here”

like on a map in some failing shopping mall

full of empty stores

and kiosks of fake jewelry

painted gold.

I don't know.

Maybe if I keep drinking

I'll find my way

somewhere...

to brilliance, to rehab,

or to the ground.

But I don't give two shits,

I'll just let Jack take the wheel

take it from my hands

because I can't find my way on my own.

There's just something

so unexplainably beautiful

about kissing the lips

of a cold bottle

under an empty, polluted sky

then watching the stars appear

one by one,

telling me exactly where I need

to go

and be.

breaking windows with my heart

Love is a cannibal

chewing on the bones

of my heart

while I walk down Harper

vaping THC

at two in the morning

looking for a thug to piss off

who'd leave me dead

and bloody in the streets.

But I've walked all the way up to Nine Mile

and haven't seen a soul...

only a sad-looking puppy

who peeked out from a parking lot

looking for my affection.

I left him there to die.

Little fucker would probably just hump my leg

and eat my food

if I take him home

just like every skinny bitch

who said they'd love me forever

when I brought them back to my house

from the bar.

Nope, that dog's gonna die

under an abandoned car

and I'm gonna keep kicking

this heart-shaped rock

down the shattered slabs of sidewalk

until I find a window

to throw it through.

Through all this shit

I wonder how my eyes have stayed so blue

and didn't turn black from the poison of all I've seen.

But the skin around them

has been sculpted by the hand of pain

into a scowl that's dried hard

as stone on my face.

Looking into the mirror I think

this is the face of an angry, tired old man

with the eyes of a newborn, oblivious

to the suffering of this world.

If the old saying is right, that the eyes are really the window of the soul

then maybe that innocent blue is a child, staring out from his broken home

with dreams leaving

while his dad still beats his mom

in the back room of my mind.

But if only he knew

that once the alcohol has killed his father

and the therapy has cured his mother

he'd be able to step outside

to look up at an unimaginable sky

and make it jealous of the blue

that has been shut away for years

in his own darkness.