Poetry I wrote you some flowers

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i can never go home again
but still for all my wandering
i cannot find what i started for
and know not why it’s yet unfound.

 

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Each night, my love crawls into bed with me
and holds me close
and runs fingers through my hair
Just like you used to.

Each night, my love crawls into bed with me
and puts its hands around my throat
and makes me suffer for ever loving
Just to spite me.

 

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i took a walk
down to the river
(to see if it was like
you
and it was)

it didn't have the answers
just like you
(but it had
water
and waves).

 

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I don’t know.
I don’t think I ever did.

 

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do i look like
the words
on this page

and are we so lacking
that words can describe us

 

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It’s only a burning memory
brought to embers and ash
of a name and a face
and times which passed

it’s only the warmth of a woman
who left long ago
whose life melted away
and who I no longer know

so sit by the fire with me
and watch the memories vanish
and feel her warmth
like I once did.

 

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She made me love poetry.

I didn't love anything before her
and I didn't feel
(not in the way people do)

but she loved things
like me
and music
and rabbits

and she made me love them too.

 

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I didn’t know I was asexual
but she always felt that I was closest in bed
when I was truthfully very far away
and she never found where that was.

She didn’t like me very much when I wasn’t away.

 

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She was from Puerto Rico
but just as pale as me
and just as bad a cook
but I could see the Caribbean in her eyes
just like I remembered seeing it
and the warmth of the sand
was the warmth of her breast.

 

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dominic has a doll
and i envy him
for having the same life as me
but loving it more.

 

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I miss you, Destiny,
and I don’t want you to become a name
in a poem.
I want you here
with me.

 

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i sing of Olaf glad and big
whose warmest heart recoiled at war:
a conscientious object-or

his wellbelovéd colonel(trig
westpointer most succinctly bred)
took erring Olaf soon in hand;
but--though an host of overjoyed
noncoms(first knocking on the head
him)do through icy waters roll
that helplessness which others stroke
with brushes recently employed
anent this muddy toiletbowl,
while kindred intellects evoke
allegiance per blunt instruments--
Olaf(being to all intents
a corpse and wanting any rag
upon what God unto him gave)
responds,without getting annoyed
"I will not kiss your fucking flag"

straightway the silver bird looked grave
(departing hurriedly to shave)

but--though all kinds of officers
(a yearning nation's blueeyed pride)
their passive prey did kick and curse
until for wear their clarion
voices and boots were much the worse,
and egged the firstclassprivates on
his rectum wickedly to tease
by means of skilfully applied
bayonets roasted hot with heat--
Olaf(upon what were once knees)
does almost ceaselessly repeat
"there is some shit I will not eat"

our president,being of which
assertions duly notified
threw the yellowsonofabitch
into a dungeon,where he died

Christ(of His mercy infinite)
i pray to see;and Olaf,too

preponderatingly because
unless statistics lie he was
more brave than me:more blond than you.

—

e.e. cummings

 

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Soon, all discord disappears.
Soon, the melodies will silence
and the chord
will ring out
and echo
and fade
and die.

 

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A poem every day. That's this thread, from now until the foreseeable future. What that means for y'all reading is a drastic reduction in quality. Hopefully, my worst stuff is behind me, but fuck it, this is for me, not you.

Hope y'all enjoyed this thread when it was intelligible, because that ends May 1, 2021.

--

A poem everyday
life with no backspace
forward always moving
so what's behind has meaning

 

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The numbers increase
slowly
steadily
learning nothing
but still they're counting
and they do not stop for me
no matter how much I want them to

 

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O

 

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I’ll send you
a substitute
heart.

You lost yours
and I don’t need mine
so it’s only right
to give it to you.

 

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aw fuck it
remembering to do things is hard

 

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sometimes you get lost
but just know the beat
and come back in

 

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Away you drift in the ashes of memory
gone and forgotten, like an old favorite melody
lost in the edges of old tattered poetry
(borne evermore in lament of the lonely).
Angels have no thought of ever returning you —

(Would they be angry if I thought of joining you?)

 

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I wonder if someone
will speak for my death
or if I even want them to.

Maybe the Wabash will remember me
floating along
with the wind
with the fish
with the dirt.

 

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You were there
in my dream
telling me you’d stay forever
so long as I never woke

I wish I took that offer.

 

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the unquantifiable pleasure
of having a mild cold
on a rainy day
with you and
a favorite
song

 

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The ghosts of Columbian Park
sing lightly as the falling leaf
and dance slowly as the tree.

 

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sometimes all that keeps you alive
is a jar of maraschino cherries
resting in the fridge
that you haven't gotten to try yet