I write poems
that everyone reads

that many appreciate

except the ones
they are written for

written about
bled for
bled about

I write poems
on the back of cereal boxes
under my bed
on clean kotex pads
in pickle slices
on my torn cuticles

with
cracked pepper
insulted salt shakers
broken heart fragments
scattered chances of showers
mislead school girls
kidnapped puppy dogs
with a dash of

sugar and spice
and everything
nice

I listen to Radiohead and Sia
wish you'd walk through the door
or someone like you

used to be

someone like I thought you were

maybe someone
I just imagined

????

who knows

but I'll go back to writing poems
with

tar on tree bark
with rug burn
on new lovers's knees

with
broken bottles
flecked bloodied spit
with

vengeance and hope
malice and sauce in the corner
of my mouth
with

dreams and wine
and
and

it's a matter of what it's without
i suppose

with me it's always that matter
something is always the matter
because that's the way i roll
that's the way i rot
a baby that cannot comfort itself
or articulate it's needs
a

horse without a tail
or that is at least blind to it
or

I write poems
to get over you
to get over it
to live
to scratch these itches
to satisfy these mad men
who live behind my eyelids
under my nail beds
that demand

type type type type type

as loudly as they demand

bleed bleed bleed bleed bleed