You taste like
a July sunset
and laugh like
an April breeze.
You’re not as fragile
as you think you are.
Your bones are made up
of eighteen years of
broken hearts and happy endings
and your smile shines
even when the world is sinking.
There is so much more to you
than tired eyes and black lungs.
One day you will be someone.
—  Drunken Poetry // heartofthebitter-mindofapoet

Sometimes I think I belong back in the hospital

Sometimes I think I belong back in intensive therapy

Sometimes I think I belong back in the nutritionists office being forced to eat

Sometimes I think I belong in a grave

But lately I’ve been thinking I belong in your arms
Because nothing’s helped me recover like you have

Is she warmer than I was?
I bet her touch doesn’t make
you shiver like mine did.
Does she taste better than me?
She probably doesn’t taste
like last night’s cigarettes
and I bet her teeth don’t cut
your lips like a razor blade
when you kiss.
She’s not a brick wall
and you’re not a sledge hammer.
You hold her with grace,
don’t throw her against rocks
then tell her to get back up
like you always did to me.
You laugh at me, tell me
you’re happier together,
but are you really?
What’s the fun in someone easy?
Where’s the fun in loving someone
and not having to put up
a damn good fight?
—  Questions I Don’t Want Answers To  // heartofthebitter-mindofapoet

Take a picture of your mother
and turn her smile toward the earth;
watch the roots begin to suffocate —
earth turning blue eyes to brown.
Her smile remains the same
yet your teeth begin to decay
with thoughts only voiced after three drinks
and twenty cigarettes.

You’ll wake up one day and see a man on bent knee,
pledging love to a daughter you see yourself in,
and still you’ll cringe at his accent.
His mother is so proud of his achievements; 
from hot and dirty streets to clean roads and blue skies.
He spent his life searching and working

but you won’t shake his hand.

Let’s pray your daughter didn’t believe your ramblings;
lies dipped in liquor and rebuilt around nightmares.
His love is the same,
if you could see through different eyes
and not your own. 

I smoke too much because it reminds me of your hands around my neck and I want to know what it feels like to be the wall and not the bottle. I’m burning down houses and hoping you’re inside, but I’m the one turning to ash. I don’t know how to be touched without cringing and I never learned that you’re supposed to close your eyes when you kiss. I never knew how to love. I don’t think I ever will.
—  Drunken Poetry // heartofthebitter-mindofapoet
an ode to hot dogs

My last Fourth of July related post (for now) is the only poetry of mine I will ever put up here.

I wrote it in 2002.

I was drunk.

ode to a hotdog

i think that i shall never eat
a substance more devoid of meat
than the hot dog i ate last night
but damn, i did eat every bite.
and when i was done i ate another
so did my sister and my mother
i would have gone for three or four
if there had been any more.

hot dogs are the food of gods
despite the arteries they clog
in the oven, on the grill
floating in a watery swill
mustard (yellow), sauerkraut
that’s what summer’s all about
pile them high upon the plates
don’t talk to me about nitrates

no turkey, tofu, chicken filler
real meat hot dogs are what’s killer
so please don’t call me a big ol’ meanie
when i won’t share my all-beef weenie.