Collection of Poems

Gutter Glitter

I love breaking up
“Does someone have a card, an ID?”
I rummage through my back seat
for a cd case.

I need something hard
as we pull over,
in the middle of
white suburbia

letting the shadows
conceal our indiscretions.
Who would have imagined
addiction in the upper classes?

Dirty Fingernails
guttural noises;
the privileged
never looked so dirty

Murmurs of “hurry up”
I’m appalled.
Do you tell your pastor
to get on with his sermon?

Profane? No.
I am a delegate of fairness;
this is why I was appointed
the position

“Just shut the fuck up!
You’ll get yours soon enough”
Creating superfluous mountains,
I feel god like.

Don’t you know this is the best part?
This is the build up,
the climax, the orgasm;
the rest is just a let down.

A few quick flicks of the wrist.
Perfect rows of vigor,
ready to provide
doses of false hope.

Roll up your wealth
George, Thomas, and Abraham;
they all lend
a helping hand.

Snorted like an angry bull
and with as much intensity.
Cock your head to the side;
inhale the bitter taste of imprisonment.

It’s all over
And like an unsatisfied woman
after a rushed lay.
You wonder “Was that it?”

------------

Inward Rant

Gnawing at me
Rabid
It’s distressing
Monotonous
“Can you be more trite?”
Sarcasm, now that’s my language!
“Perk up” they say
“Paste that smile on”
Unscrew my hinges
Its time for my oil change
Mechanical emotion
A Paradox I am not
Conformity is tasteless
And I’m hungry for some flavor
“You know if you keep walking in circles,
You’re going to get tired”
I’m getting to the end of the beginning
And that’s how I like it
Turn the volume up!
This is my favorite part
Void
Click, click, delete
I don’t think it’s working
I’m suffocating
Alone
Wake Me up
When it’s all over
Numb
That’s how I like it
“Can you be more trite?”

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Life’s Checklist

Superficial family pictures
Forced smiles, first steps
Honor roll bumper sticker
First communion, frilly dress
Check…

Late night arguments
Holes in the wall
I’m sorry never seemed so generic

Please, thank you, and may I
Robotic responses
Tucked in shirt, pleated skirt
Private school elite
Check…

Dizzy with Jack
Dirty knees
Swallow my pride

Salutatorian rank,
If only for complacency
Application fees, entrance exams
Dorm rooms, bunk beds
Check…

Black out
Question sexuality
Bong Hits

Painfully mind-numbing Professors
APA, MLA, Chicago style perfected
Endless annotation, Quantitative data
Graveyard of ink cartridges
Check...

Plagiarism, cheat sheets
Crushed Adderall
Penny drafts

Endless Debt, Monthly payments
Dead end job, No benefits
Get married, have children
Superficial family pictures

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The Land of Lost Socks

Murphy's law says
"The odds are against me"

and even as a young child
I knew this to be true.

I wish I could offer words of wisdom,
metaphors that promote contemplation
and alliterations that dazzle.

But all I have is the desire
for self-expression.
Greedily typing away
anarchic words.

Each stanza is my dose of lithium,
my Prozac for the mind.
I wrote myself a prescription
for contentment, but the pharmacist
couldn’t fill it.

I’m going through life’s checklist
and can’t seem to find any discrepancies
but, still the glass is half empty
and my thirst grows stronger

Where is my self-satisfaction?

I think it might be where all the lost
socks go, after the dryer eats them.