Juvenile Poem

Hyperbole: I'm dying. Untouched,
stubborn to the dullness
that is waking up
to only regrets at my side,
now familiar bedfellows

Masturbation without imagination
A meta-like quality:
The star of a NatGeo special
A wild beast pleasures itself
for want of feeling

and I'm unconscious
my brain swelling with nameless want
Bloody Suburbia
A stalker's corpse in the bushes
bored to death

But we are not entertained
Assuming the missionary position
(is the poet not crass by nature?)
for much of our lives
on our backs
waiting for life to take us there

An Open Letter To You

The bereaved Gardener
Etching names into stone
Your face like clay, brown and firm

Two 0 One 9
It's so hard to fall upward
Failing to find myself in the storm

and I think it so cruel
dipping the doll's head in wax
a chipped tooth, a weepy eye

A boring into the earth
the carcass of an oak
limbs strewn about a sea of grass

I've been silent about my intentions
Seeding the soil with lies,
lies, lies, lies, lies, lies...

But worry not-
The sunflowers sprouting from
my chest will still turn in open conversation

The headstone dressed in moss will
speak my name in silent tongues
and I'll watch over you

a promise, this time