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279

So Late, After Work, Done Tending, The Bar,

Texting me, To Come Over, She Knew, I Wasn't Far,

I made Pulled Pork If you want to pop over Beans and Brussel Sprouts I salivated Remembering her pussy which smelled of sweet clover

Shut down the bar, Lock it up Tight, Walk over to Ridge Ave, Hoping to not get in a Nigger Fight,

To her Apartment, To which, I have a Key, Walk up not one stair flight, But walk up three,

Top of the decaying, Industrial building, To her Domicile, With the Black Mold, Dominating her Ceiling,

And there she is, with her Dog, And two Cats, Beautiful Ass, And two humongous Tit-Tats,

Domestic and caring, She told me to sit down, While she cooked, But she noticed, How Hungry, My Predatory Gaze Looked...

A Smile, A Smirk, She Knew, when she asked

What exactly are you looking at?

Memories be gone, Those days, such a shell, But I'll never forget, The way her pulled pork did smell.

So Late, After Work, Done Tending, The Bar, Texting me, To Come Over, She Knew, I Wasn't Far, >I made Pulled Pork >If you want to pop over >Beans and Brussel Sprouts I salivated Remembering her pussy which smelled of sweet clover Shut down the bar, Lock it up Tight, Walk over to Ridge Ave, Hoping to not get in a Nigger Fight, To her Apartment, To which, I have a Key, Walk up not one stair flight, But walk up three, Top of the decaying, Industrial building, To her Domicile, With the Black Mold, Dominating her Ceiling, And there she is, with her Dog, And two Cats, Beautiful Ass, And two humongous Tit-Tats, Domestic and caring, She told me to sit down, While she cooked, But she noticed, How Hungry, My Predatory Gaze Looked... A Smile, A Smirk, She Knew, when she asked >What exactly are you looking at? Memories be gone, Those days, such a shell, But I'll never forget, The way her pulled pork did smell.
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[–] • 1 pt

After graduation I proved the odd one out and disappeared. I got sucked into the fiction of love, the holes in my head

Please explain

[–] • 1 pt

Right after graduation, well... Just after graduation my second muse chose me. I'd had my first muse at 16 and I'll post about that on another day. She would own me for better than 20 years. I fell so hard that when she needed a change I buckled down into the page so deep that I don't think I knew sleep on a third name basis. I thought I knew my future so clear that I could change her with every line I sent out into the wind. And I was on the grind to write every beat of my heart; for her, for the women that consoled me for the lose, for the guy who shared a beer while I cried, and for the whore the wore my nut on her face while I tried to feel bad for cheating on the memory.

I pissed away any thought of a future that might make money for a need to put pen to paper.

Now I just get by, write my mind, and occasionally offend young women with poetry I'm sure they wish their contemporaries could write in earnest.

[–] • 0 pt

I pissed away any thought of a future that might make money for a need to put pen to paper.

What do you want to write?

[–] • 1 pt

It's not what I want to write. It's that I felt the warmth of love and conflated it with burn of passion and turned that into a need to tell anyone who would listen that there is something more than the think is happening in the world around them. It has nothing to do with anything larger than the person who they just saw look back. All the magic in the world exists in that moment. I am a proper propogandist for the chasing of hearts.

It's not what I want to write. It's what I'm compelled to tell the world. I will go to my grave singing the song of chase that which holds your heart and that you give yourself to most dearest.

If I die penniless, alone, despised by all to whom I confess my heart, but regarded well enough by those who have read my works then I will have lived well enough by my measure. I'll be judged thereafter. That's less my business than that of my maker.