I’m horrible with typos. My roommate has dyslexia, she is worse. We are the worst roommate copy editors ever. We cannot spot each others’ typos for the life of us.
And for that life of us I volunteer we die. Death by typos. So please…
Somebody dig us a grave of our misplaced spaces, and pile on top of us the one letter offs on our keyboards. Disintegrate us with the dis-integrity of homophones and homonyms until we___our eyes are gouged out from the lack of aye in our lives. And as the ‘AHA’ moment passes let our tongues be stuck inside our moths for mouths, and naval where our nasals should be. So we breathe in wings and sails that were meant for flying and boating, but instead keep us tethered to the six fought shadow of a gave
Hey this a poem I’m working on, no where near finished. Would love your guys’ feedback on what I have so far.
Sitting along blocks of ice
Jumping into pits of fire
Walking into lion’s den
She holds the knife towards her neck…
Tears falling down cheek…
Quiver quickly lip…
Hold in breath..
Stare with the intent of pain.
Oh yes she is the martyr.
She claims the part so well.
Sacrificing herself for..
Which happen to be present.
She has “saved” us all.
From whatever evil it is she has portended.
And this is her truth.
Her words become real when she utters them.
And the ice becomes real.
And the fire real.
And the lion real.
And the knife becomes held by a hand other than her own.
You hold it trying to let go. But her fingers grasp so tightly.
You just can’t.
So the martyr becomes real.
And she dies,
At whatever hand is closest.
so what do you think?
Head resting against porcelain.
as the coolness fails to calm the pounding in my head.
I wish someone was stroking my hair.
With that out of my mouth flies the reason I wanted to give you a blow job last night,
falls every little secret I told to people who should not have been told.
Dribbling from my lips are bits and pieces of regret, loneliness, and shame.
Paranoia heaves within my chest,
as I try and fill the holes of my Swiss Cheese evening with condiments of assumption.
My bed is both a comforting companion
and a painfully cold casket.
I yank my own hair,
wondering if I really asked you to do the same last night, or was that just part of a dream?
For my memories feel like dreams, my thoughts knives,
and the ringing doorbell an AK47 to my brain.
Orange juice and a plain bagel,
Warm shower and an Advil,
Big smile and denial.
That’s how I’ll get through my day.