Not only do I love writing but I also enjoy reading. So many of the amazing things I read are enjoyed by so few, as not every literary marvel is also a marketing mogul. It’s this, i care to share most.
This man I didn´t wan´t to become Devil talked to me Hence I let myself bite that so called-e (I´m just a piece of good hearted… think so) Bo! Don´t be to surprised when the bo can make you a little mess in your body. Sorry. Out. Read you all lator you innovator, have a great life. I´m, out this dumb shit, did serve me for a purpose for some time, time is up.
Here I am. Beergut, oyster
sauce on my t-shirt, pantlegs
I am the poem
no one wants.
I have been rejected
from 17 blogzines,
5 of them fledgling,
and not once with anything
All I have been treated
with is apathy, all those smug
turning their noses up at me
while they sit all day
on social media
and jerking each other off.
What do they know about Oliver
What do they know about anything?
I tell ya.
And yet it never gets easier
those first words:Unfortunately, this just isn’t the right fit…
I don’t give a donkey’s
about your pantywaist
I am my own aesthetic.
I am the poem that refuses to quit.
Standing in the howling
my fly unzipped
the wart on my chin
black hairs sprouting
My hair is a prelude to my mental illness,
an introduction to the dissatisfaction with stability within me;
The first time I ever dyed my hair, I was sixteen,
a peak in the development, rather lack thereof;
my brain once a high-functioning factory,
now a run-down fun house,
cracked mirrors replacing every assembly line
that used to cycle through its daily quota.
The last time I dyed my hair,
it was just a month after cutting away a weathered ceiling,
dipping and bowing against the weight
of years drowned in this disorderly environment.
The sight of the goldengrass speckled chunks falling
to an unkept, unswept floor, sent shockwaves
down my spine, leaving behind a buzzing sensation
of power that having control over change contains.
But now, I plan to let my hair grow natural;
I’ve lived in the looney bin for as long as I can remember,
and despite the wallpaper being molded,
and the ground not being made of marbled granite,
it is a place I’ve found comfort in, a home with hope;
There are renovations to be had, new memories to be made,
and aspirations to attain.
Ever since I’m in abyss with my thoughts, I’ve conceded this fact that I’m anonymous to many and familiar to none.
I’ve been on hiatus for a while. Sometimes, I’m not able to retrieve the exact impression of you but I’m quite tenacious to your distant apparition, and these memories that I’m left with.
The entanglement of my beliefs are transcending over the analytical ability of my mind. There are times, when my sentiments makes my words wander and push me in an obnoxious state.
You once told me that adaptation is a skill of the survivor, who has a foresight of speculating the surface and moulding himself accordingly. I believe, we’re all survivors of our own doom and some of us are still scratching walls of hell just to crawl out of that void.
In the depths of this contrasting segment, I’m still researching about the variations in your words again.
I’ve always admired your intellect. Maybe that’s why I’m acquainted with my past. Your guidance is bestowed upon me, which now, I’ll carry forward, as a legacy through my words.