Poetry I wrote you some flowers

[Error 420]

I’m tired of learning from hurt
and just being better than those who hurt me
and never getting better in return

I’m tired of learning from getting back Fs
and just learning to cheat better
and figuring out that it doesn’t matter what I do
so long as it’s correct

I’m tired of learning from my father
a man who was a model for everything not to be
a man who made me as good as I am now
by beating me into something stronger
and hating me until I could only feel love for others

I want to have a family
who cares about me
and believes in me
like I should have had when I was a child

but I didn’t have one then
so I can’t figure them out now

 

[Error 420]

I’m singing a tune in Portuguese
with an ear to the beat
and one to the harmony
and one to history
of a thousand years I cannot hope to understand
and it seems so laughable to even try

 

[Error 420]

I feel compelled to write something despite not feeling where the line breaks go
(it seems like that’s the only thing that qualifies something as poetry to me, which I guess is valid from a prescriptivist view).
I always think about what Yeats said, “all that is personal will rot”, when I make anything.
Too personal, too specific: not worth sharing.
I’m too exhausted to speak concisely or metaphorically and yet still feel the need to say something, so here I am.
Fuck.

I’m angry? And sad? I’m exhausted. Overwhelmed. There’s a list of feelings — poems have those, right?
Fuck.

I also think about something I once said, which is that sometimes you need to write a shitty poem.
I tend to assume things I say in the past are wiser and generally more correct. Not a wise or correct assumption, though.

sometimes you wander until you find something beautiful
but that isn’t the point of looking
because you don’t always find it
and there’s nothing for you to share with others
except for ill-conceived and un-flowing words
in a ramble

so why share it?
maybe someone else will like the poem
and that would make it worth it

i guess

 

[Error 420]

a friend of mine wrote a song
about making the worst mistake of his life
and it was very good

he ran away with the wind
as it blew away his house
and it was very real

it seemed a lot like him
(although we aren't close enough for me to know)
and it was very strange

it was the words of a young man
which i compared to words i once wrote
and it was very different

because i never run away
i just sit there and ferment

 

[Error 420]

Christ
I’ll blow my brains out
if I have to listen to another Schoenberg

 

[Error 420]

i want to scrape my eyes out
with a wooden spoon
god, i wish i was a woman —

gentlemen, don’t fall for a lesbian
worst mistake i’ve made in days

 

[Error 420]

wake me up early on the day i die
and let me see my roommates that one last time
get me out of bed before sunrise
so i can watch it happen the day i die
walk me to the river and let me bathe in its water
and let me have that one last falter
ing step to the counter of the coffee shop
to see that barista with whom i sometimes talk
and maybe i’ll finally ask her her name
and nod and say goodbye like any other day
wake me up early on that day i die
and let me walk ‘til midnight.

 

[Error 420]

nouns to nouns
plagiarism of a better poet
poe
poen
poenslurism
mayhaps you will poenslurism
sometimes i do mayhapsyouwill poenslurisms
especially of e.e.cummings
maybe it's a lacropitalization
that is apoening to the eyes
especially for us phone-bound zoomers
cummings is a good poet
but i understand the perception of pretention
preception
[portmanteau are hard]
the percention of his work
because it's very strange
and strange things are seldom appreciated by those who aren't weirdos
and weirdos with enough money are suddenly academics
and academics are pretentious
(trust me, i am one)
and they put strange things in boring places
and tell you that you can't have it

i think e.e.cummings wasn't trying to be a revolutionary
he was just having fun

 

[Error 420]

Do y’all think I could pull off calling people “baby”?
I’m inclined to say no
because I’m a man
but it just feels right in my mouth.

Do y’all think I could actually tell people I’m a
“poet”?
Like, technically it’s true
but I mostly just post rants
with artistically placed line breaks.

Like, go ahead, try to analyze this.
You can’t. It’s literally just plain
mundane
earthly language
without any of the cool stuff.

“Ah, but it’s ‘self-aware’,” you might say
but so was Sharknado
and that film isn’t even the funny kind of bad
shit’s just bad.

 

[Error 420]

it was on an autumn day
where dirge bells were aclanging
for old captain grey
who so often went haranguing
about the ship of dorakeen

he was a sailing man by blood
his father's father from the sea itself
but none had seen that fearsome flood
that sank that newly builded whelp:
the baby ship of dorakeen

it was a ship, to say the least
a towering tyrant of wood and steel
a hundred feet high and a hundred deep
with that new impressive "warship's keel"
the great kraken of dorakeen

its plans, they say, were written on
a flock of foals fresh born
tattoo'd into the skin upon
their backs exposed when shorn
the godsent gift of dorakeen

its mast, they say, was thin
with an oblong, twisted body
a cursed design that ne'er was seen
amateur, roughshod, shoddy
that foolish ship of dorakeen

aye, the devil's wrote these plans
spoke the abbot of el'thomen
'twas not meant for mortal hands
to construct the ship of omen
this foul beast of dorakeen

and yet he built the ship
well respected captain grey
he built it as a gift
to his lover, far away
who lived in fine, fair dorakeen

the sky itself did curse the ship
and struck it down with thunder
but captain grey would not give in
no matter if god sundered
his precious ship of dorakeen

it was built e'en as the storms got worse
brought back from burning fire
old captain grey, he broad a curse
to protect his ship from god's ire
oh immortal ship of dorakeen

it sailed in the navy of the queen
and there won many battles
'twas a fighter, fast and mean
although its cannons rattled
the shaky hull of dorakeen

tales are told of that foul beast
which pounced upon our enemies
from the darkest shadows of the sea
it stands that in a world of equity
a worse fate befell old dorakeen

in his later years, old captain grey
would find no audience for his rambles
for all the cruelness of his fate:
it was his own poor gamble
upon the ship of dorakeen

it was a flood of no renown
not a fearsome foe
who brought the old boat down
and yet the captain never ceased his woe
on his wondrous ship dorakeen

 

[Error 420]

Teeter totter
Teething toddler
Toothsome tumbler
Truthing rumbler
Troven humbler
Loathing thunder
Loving wonder
Woven winder
Wyvern minder
Whittled minor
Wisened minus
Wizard Linus
Whistled whining
Fizzled winding
Fiddled siding
Fibbing sighting
Dibbing knightly
Diddling nightbee
Doing sightsee
Losing tightly

 

[Error 420]

William Penn wore a sword
But could wear it no more
because his heart was burdened
with the blood it spilt
even though he seldom used it

Marsha P. Johnson threw bricks
to defend her sisters
but she first threw love
and not enough people listened
until it was too late

The other day, the pride parade
in Kharkiv, Ukraine was held in a subway
to escape the shelling
and they called for love
while the Russians invaded

William Penn wore a sword
and George Fox said:
“Wear it as long as thou cans’t”
and I don’t think we need to anymore
but we sure can.

 

[Error 420]

when the swin due for the mortician
due to you the neighbor
for the such and for the wish
and in the tomorrow waken
thus is the wit of mice
and thus the miracle is right
of and the guess and to wicked
my is the but of to the morrow
and bus the wisened bum
up to the guff and vin the dust
the redoubt find the gun
and wish the right of dues tonight
and make the future buy it
might find the cut of guy
in ascent of it the you

 

[Error 420]

i walk into the recital hall
and take my seat for rehearsal
and i look to my right

and up in the sopranos
is a beautiful woman
whom my foolish heart beats loudly for

(she’s a stranger
but she’s funny
and she said i’m cute)

i think about her too often
because my hormones tell me to
and she’s a thought i don’t mind having.

and then i look to my left
and there in the altos
is the woman i love.

i feel my heart break
to the tune of Vivaldi’s Gloria

and i marvel in her beauty
and the memories flood back
and i remember the police officer she sent to my door
and then i see the woman on the right.

i pull out your picture from my wallet
and i look at the woman you were
and i still don’t see you.

everything fades away into the music
and i forget for long enough
but then i take a glance
on the left or the right
and it all comes back—

 

[Error 420]

many years ago,
i was given a kiss
in the dark
under the overpass
on the way to the river

i thought it strange
this little gift
given on a lark
under the autumn trees
whose leaves did wither

it was one of many
she did give
in that park
which stretched long
beside the river

but this morning
i remembered it
like i was there
under the overpass
on the way to the river

 

[Error 420]

you and i
whirlumbling through meadows
whwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhmb
feetfalls on grass
you in midair
so









far






above
me
whirl
whirwhirwhirwhirwhirl

and my feetfalls
fallumberfallumberfallumber trip
on a rock

and you

      float
 

                 away


whwhwhwhwhwhwhwhhhhhhhirl

 

[Error 420]

guitar strings
suckling songs
in a starlit throng--
trombones trumping
tender tunes
in the hallowed afternoon--
a drummer snoozing
sombre streaks
as the old bass head creaks--

as the words
pierce their way from my throat
(barely heard
past the autumn wind's cold),
i disappear

and through the lyrics
i find myself
with you.

 

[Error 420]

I give her back to thee:
she whom you gave to me.
Yet as thou did not lose her in giving,
so I have not lost her in return.

What you give, you make mine
and what is mine once was thine.
And Life is eternal
and Love is immortal
and Death is only a horizon.

Lift me up so I may see further.
Cleanse my eyes so I may see clearer.
Draw me close so I may be
with the one I give to thee.

I give her back to thee:
the precious one you gave to me.
Yet as thou did not lose her in giving,
so I have not lost her in return.
Amen.

 

[Error 420]

Tutelage of the ancients
and the cream of milk
My children, arisen
For in the darkness
There is no ghost
but those within your minds
In the recesses of psyche
And Terpsichore
Whom is the ending
Calliope the end
Within the supple roundabout
Of watered machinations
If they be of doubtful hands
or of the spoiled bread
of witches

 

[Error 420]

there are so many words
(in my mind)
when i see you
but the first are always

GAH
FUCK
AH
JESUS
FUCK

which are not beautiful words
and i do not say them aloud
because the panic i feel
is all me, not you
and the next words are always

thank
you

for being so wonderful, perhaps
for bringing those rare moments of light

thank
you
for
existing.

 

[Error 420]

my grandpa has a bird named truth
he keeps it in a little cage
(i asked him if the name meant anything
and he said he didn’t know)

it’s not the kind that sings
it’s the kind that talks
(i asked if the words it says means anything
and he said he didn’t know)

i asked if it was happy
it said “good bird
truth good bird
water water”

i asked if it had something to tell me
it said “ha ha
ha silly
good birdie”

and as i looked at truth
and truth looked back at me
i resigned myself to not understanding
and gave it a scratch behind the ears.

 

[ash_williams]

I’m obsessed with your poetry

 

[Error 420]

i’ve just been released from the psych ward
(i was on suicide watch)
after a man tried to kill me for wearing bright colors
and i had nowhere to go
and nobody to talk to

so they locked me up
and i had nowhere to go
and nobody to talk to
until i begged to be let free

i came back to class today
and nobody noticed i was gone
and my roommates just said “hey”
and my heart is crumbling

i want to find wisdom in this pain
i want to feel at peace with God
but i feel nothing but the dopamine rush of the drugs they put me on

i wanted to write poetry when i was locked up
i wanted to write a happy poem now
something clever about flowers or birds or coffee
but my voice is tired from screaming
and no words bring me rest.

 

[Error 420]

i hear those words in my head every moment
f**got
q*eer
words so foul i can’t type them here

i hear them and i think
that’s me
that’s everything i’ll ever be

 

[Error 420]

In the coffee shop
A fly lands on my cup
As I struggle to write

It wanders aimlessly
Smelling the sugar which I poured
Way too much of

And it inches closer to the lip
Moment by moment
In wandering circles
only to stop a centimeter short

And it flies off and lands on me
And I wonder if it wonders
Why I’m watching so intently

And I feel a companionship
Between me and the fly
As we both wander aimlessly

Following the scent of sugar
Or rotten meat
Or a subject for a poem