Tymer

I hate this poem. So far, two lines Yet, so horrid. Save yourself Stop now It only gets worse from here. I want to burn this poem. Feel the friction of my finger against a lighter spark Watch as the small flame just kisses the page See fire consume the clean paper Smell the smoke in the air Until only ash remains. I want to bury this poem. Dig a hole with my own bare hands Crumple the paper into a tight wrinkled ball Plunge the monstrosity deep into earth Feel the weight of the dirt as I move it And push this closer to Hell. I want to shred this poem. Hear the paper cry out as I tear it Run my scissors along its helpless l

There's a glow of confidence about her She's on the prowl Scouting out the next blow to her plastic card Her hunting partner, boyfriend, fiancé, close in tow. Boyfriend drags himself Slumped shoulders, dim eyes Spirit broken. Her eyes lock on a pair of high heels Perfect prey with a superb fit. Box closes, decision made Passes it to boyfriend who unwillingly carries it She's an abuser of kindness But her arms are weak She says. His eyes lock on a voluptuous woman He examines the form underneath her snug fitting dress. Staring indiscreetly at this woman who is not his fiancé His girl notices what at which he is star

Bodies sway with the car's motion Pressure on all sides Fighting gravity Holding on tight, bracing Don't fall 96th Street A few bodies leave and ascend towards Earth Twice that number enter Hell "Do not lean on the door" the droning voice commands Disheartened bodies locked out The journey continues without Arms plastered to sides to hide The pools of sweat fermenting in the pits Liquid beads hang off faces And a sticky layer forms on the palms Not a breeze to be felt. Past the rows of jumbled arms Behind the fists clenched around hot metal bars Grimy yellow walls cage tight Smiling advertising gives a false sense of hope

The heart is one of the strongest muscles in the body. Mine is stronger than most. It beats sixty six times per minute when I'm calm More when I'm anxious. Hearts do not crack. They do not break. They absolutely do not sink, shatter, or rip in two Many poems say otherwise. It is your sanity that cracks when you hear the news. Your sense of time is what breaks as those fatal words are spoken. Your composure absolutely does not sink, shatter, or rip in two For it is completely and utterly obliterated. When I am calm, blood is pumped to my extremities about once a second. My heart can't break. Yet when my throat closes, my sight fa

                               Desire to stab.                            I wish I had a penis                          Then I could stab stuff.