Tag: whinging

the things I didn’t know

I didn’t know
that when you asked me
that question, you were reading
far more into my answer
than I intended.

I didn’t know
that when I lied
and said those two
things were not related,
you actually cared so much
about my answer.

I didn’t know
that you were angry
at me last night. I wondered
why you were behaving
the way you were, and I felt
like something was wrong
but I couldn’t figure out
why.

you’re not the only one
who sometimes realizes things
way after the fact.

and really, given the extremely mixed
messages
and lack of communication
going on here, can you
blame me? oh wait. I guess
you can.

should you ever
care to forgive me,
I’ll be in the corner
wearing my dunce cap,
wondering if I’ll ever
get out of the doghouse.

fine.

if everything is fine,
why am I biting
all my nails
to the quick?

if everything is fine,
why are all your latest
songs so very
passive-aggressive?

nothing feels fine
right now. there’s a disturbance
in the Force. I’m sure
it’s my fault somehow.
great. another Gordian knot
and me without my magic
sword.

grist

on days like this
when all of my being and senses
are useless and dull, the very air
tasteless and thick
as grey porridge, and my body
and mind are lumpy, lumpen clay,
with no spark, wit,
spirit or daemon
to infect my useless mud golem
and make it walk and talk
and pretend
to be a real living creature, I offer
whatever part of me
can strike a spark in you.

so be sure to
grind me up fine, and
check for chaff – because
on days like today I feel like
that’s all there is – and crunch up
my bones well, to transform my useless grist
to good and tasty bread,
sift me, sieve me, strain me
til I’m smaller and
finer and
better.

today’s a wasted
day for me,
but I’m glad it was not so
for you. you made some nice cakes
from my coarse
corn meal.

spent

I’m rummaging
through my brain, turning
out my mental pockets,
hoping to find the words
for one more poem. yesterday
I spent all my coins, cranked
out so many poems that I truly fear
I have nothing left. why didn’t I save
one or two for a rainy day
like today, when I’m hungover
and have no inspiration
and nothing seems worthy
to write about? silly me.
maybe if I look a little harder
I can wring some more wine
out of this dirty rag
I call my brain, and cudgel one more
collection of words on the page
into something resembling
a poem.

election

I guess I’ll vote if
they even let me, but
to be honest, I really don’t care anymore
who wins for real and who steals
the election. I can’t seem to vote out
my useless, corrupt heart, so I’m electing
to shut off my pain.

let Trump turn this country
into a post-apocalyptic wasteland,
then at least I wouldn’t feel
so all alone in my terrible
despair. let Hillary sell all our souls
to the banks and corporations
for all I care. I lost mine long
ago.

let’s fucking burn America
to the ground, please just take me down
with it. as long as everyone
will finally shut up about it,
and let me die
in peace.

my grocery lists

how many trees
have died for my
grocery lists?
thrown in the trash
with most of the page
left blank. well, rip me up
and put me in there too
because I’ve died for you
a hundred times and it’s all
meaningless, in a hundred years
no one will care, my using dead
tree bodies to write my ephemera
is just one of the eight million
reasons I’m going to hell, and when
I get there I’ll be confronted by the
sad-eyed garbage men
who will wordlessly show me
the cuts on their hands
from my orphaned and deadly
cat food can lids, and all the little
children in Africa who died
as a direct result of my wasting
water by running it in the bathroom
to give me privacy or sometimes
if I can’t pee right away, anyway
the point is none of them will
actually be in hell because they
are innocent and I’m just
the absolute worst – and even
saying that is narcissistic and
pathetic, a self-pitying
worthless loser trying to
draw attention to herself talk
and you see now how
this goes, a perpetual
downward spiral
forever like Fibonacci or some shit
I probably saw on a FB meme
because I’m
dumb like that –
they will just visit me in hell
and give me accusing stares
that say I’m not mad, I’m just
disappointed and I’ll probably
learn even more ways
I’m fucking up right now
without even meaning to
or knowing it so
as much as I hate being alive
half the time for no good reason,
I don’t really look forward
to dying, either. so please
call off that mob hit I ordered
on myself, because
I’m going to have to do something
far worse than death.

I think I’m going to have
to live.