My objective is selfish Not to share or be heard To get it out and move on No one seems to hear my pain No one seems to feel my pain
To be a true artist Must they be recluses Crazy mad or sick Or even better dead Show me a healthy artist
A joke Lost in Translation You will Never
A family trait Massage Is our vice No shame Take what
Your enthusiasm exhausts me This coke is flat The bubbles disperse Leaving a sticky and sweet Aftertaste
Life is good A little luxury A cup of coffee Served with toast Consumed lazily
The pine trees Reach up On both sides Of the road Telling me
Most women are cooks But a man who cooks Is a chef She cooks over and over To feed the masses
Itchy It has to come off Nerves Makes me pick His look
The human heart ...leaps and jumps ...races and sings ...sighs and groans The treacherous heart can
I am a consumer Female Twenties I buy Cheap clothes and lattes
My soft spot My sweet boy I’d do anything for Who convinced me Little boys are the best
I love to hear poetry read Rather than performed I love to hear each word Appreciated Rather than memorized
I would never choose To eat a granola bar Or peanut butter crackers Though I eat them All of the time
Turkey and dressing Loud and overwhelming Opinions and food fly Green bean casserole Too much laughter