Gone are the Days

Gone are the days of anger and rage,

Only for a new song to play,

One wrought with defiance and righteousness.

 

Gone are the days of racism and hate,

Only for new prejudice to raise,

But we must prove there is still fight in us.

 

Gone are the days of sexism and rape,

But still self-entitled men decide our fate,

No more do we pretend to exist for a good fuck.

 

GONE ARE THE DAYS we must say,

GONE ARE THE DAYS they must sway,

GONE ARE THE DAYS where we must wish for luck.

 

GONE ARE THE DAYS are the words we’ve sung.

Celebrate Mother’s Day

Happy Mother’s Day to all you tired moms, energetic moms, and the moms somewhere in between the two;
To the sad moms, happy moms, and moms who-can’t-decide-exactly-what-they-are-today;
To new moms, old moms, and would-be moms;
To the rich moms, poor moms, and moms who don’t know what they are because they spend all their money on their kids;
To the modern mom, traditional moms, and making-it-up-as-you go moms;
To moms of all colors, religions, and sexualities;
You are the best moms you can be and that’s good enough.

The Hate Within

I like the way I can’t breathe when I wake up;

I like the way I can’t see when I fuck up.

I love the way I can’t speak when you make me mad,

And I love more than anything…

The way I can’t find the strength to live when I feel sad.

 

I hate my rhymes and stories and songs,

I hate everything that ever happens so I just play along.

I hate when I smile and I hate when I laugh.

I hate thinking that you might judge me so fast.

I hate that I hate everything.

I literally hate everything.

 

I even hate the way I like the terrible things that make me feel like death.

And the worst part is – I haven’t figured out what to do about it yet.

I supposed I could drown in medication so that I could function.

I could take a pill every day so that I could live without disruption.

But those are I coulds – not I wills.

I have no desire to replace my meltdowns with pills.

The only thing I want to depend on is me, myself, and I; and what I know to be true.

And this is what I know today – I hate myself, but tomorrow I’ll hate you.

Hit & Miss

The best of friends they were, the best of friends they are;

But things are never are as they seem – and they often sit quietly in their cars…

Stealing glances across a parking lot.

Is tonight the night to steal a kiss?

Is tonight the night to reveal the truth?

Things with them are hit and miss,

But neither of them has a clue.

Pissed Off Poetry (Very Nonconforming, Very ‘Meh’)

“Hello,” she says.

“Hello,” he says.

And that’s all they say because the two assholes can’t figure their shit out.

 

“Good-bye,” she sighs.

“Good-bye,” he sighs.

Because they haven’t spoken for eight goddamn hours and they have no fucking clue what they are trying to accomplish together.

 

Two weeks later, it’s practically the same opener; “Hey,” she manages with downward cast eyes.

In a very similar fashion he smiles somewhat in her direction; “Hey,” continuing with the barely achieved verbal communication.

Although, how is that even communication because they literally say nothing to each other of substance.

 

Later that night, holy shit, he manages to say something!

“You got plans this weekend,” this man asks without any prompting.

And this woman is so caught off guard she fucking laughs in response.

“Of course not,” she says, because she has literally no flirting game whatsoever.

“Oh.”

Fucking, “oh,” he says!

Yes, because these two are making so much progress.

 

At the end of the night the usual farewell ensues,

He goes to the parking garage and she walks up the street to the outdoor parking lot.

Because she prefers the brisk walk each night, which is really fucking stupid – by the way.

The thing that makes this particular night different, though, is the fact that there are a bunch of guys harassing ladies on the street.

The guy notices this and doubles back before he hits the second floor; “Let me walk with you.”

She accepts lazily because – well – these two are just too awkward and their social interactions are excruciatingly painful.

 

Something like a month passes before she is able to talk to him again.

Another, “Hello,” in a somehow passively surprised voice because she’s literally forgotten that he exists.

In response, “Hello,” because this story couldn’t be any more boring than it already is.

But today, “Thanks,” she throws out – turning just enough for him to actually look her in the eye.

They don’t need to talk to know what for; they don’t need to recall the fact that there had been a rape on the street only hours after they left a few weeks ago on their brisk walk.

So he just shrugs his shoulders with a barely attentive grin; “You’re welcome.”

And that’s all they say until it is time to leave.

And, much to my surprise, he walks her to her car again.

 

This apparently becomes a bit of a routine.

Never really talking or even acknowledging each other…

Silently burning through the work activities for the day and then walking together…

To her car first, and then she drives him to his, and off they go.

Abso-fucking-lutely nothing else.

How is nobody getting pissed off about this odd companionship?

Am I the only one invested in the romance of others than myself?

 

Because it pisses me off and I really quite hate watching it happen.

 

But I watch it continue on for months.

Actual literal months, you know; like nine months.

As it turns out, they must have had something going on because those bastards got engaged out of the fucking blue.

He proposed one day after walking her to her car – in the middle of the night with this expensive ass ring that could have encouraged thieves to risk being caught.

He proposes and she accepts and these two know nothing about each other to my knowledge.

 

It’s fucking awesome,

But I am curious how these two managed that shit because – wow.

That is a tale for the Times…

Discretion is powerful – deceit and manipulation are truly amazing.

I want these two bozos to mentor me so that maybe I won’t be so fucking obvious about the shit that gets me – good or bad.

That would be nice.

 

Yeah, that would be pretty fucking nice.

Never Committed

Smoke is pouring out of my lover’s mouth,

And he’s growling that he wants me to come back to his house.

Alcohol wets my lips as I shift in my seat,

I consider the offer for as long as I please.

Should I give him another night of pleasure, or another of pain?

If I don’t go this time then he’ll just ask again.

With the holidays around the corner and no partner to call his own,

I’m betting he wants to show me off to his family back home,

Present me as a false reality so they stop asking questions and leave him alone.

 

I tell him that I can’t go this time.

Another puff from the cigar, a gentle whine, a faked cry;

“Come with me and I promise I’ll make you scream,”

But we both know that sleeping with me will bring him no more relief.

No more than the tar he keeps in a secret room for his dark days;

No more than the girls that he has in a separate phone that are on call.

I know all about the hidden drugs and all the ways he tries to fall.

Death won’t come to him in a timely fashion, I suppose.

So he’ll just commit any sin to put himself on death row.

 

“Maybe we’ll start the year with a bang,” I laugh weakly in his direction,

Normally an obvious joke such as that would gain his affection;

Not today and certainly not now.

Not right after I’ve turned him down.

He points out to me; “This is the third time this month,”

And for eleven months now that is three times more,

Than I’ve ever declined in a single more before.

 

 

“But I love you,” he reveals, “Nobody ever lasts an entire year.”

That makes me special, I hear.

His lovers come and go as quickly as one blinks,

Yet the reality is that I am no different than them; it will surely make his heart sink.

Make his heart with burn and break and sink so deep in the pits of his gut.

But he wouldn’t be the first one to fall in love with me – always such terrible luck.

I don’t love the way normal people love.

I love people as people or love them for sex, but never for both.

To ask any more than that of me is a venture of false hope.

“You’ll never keep me home,” I tell him,

“I always leave in the end.”

 

I don’t know why it is I expect anyone to beg,

I think so highly of myself, I guess I don’t expect anything less.

They always drop their heads in understanding, though.

Each and every single one of them nod their head in understanding before they go,

“I’ll lose your number,” he suggests as he shambles from his seat to the coat hang.

“But only because I’m too weak to resist,” he shares;

“But please keep mine. In case there’s ever a change.”

There will be no such thing, I’m sure, but I agree.

There is no mistake, though, because this is the last he’ll ever see of me.