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Depressed since I broke me PC and have had nothing to do except complain and write dead end stories.

Also I fucking despise poetry.

Sad man

I like that you were a whore.

Even though I called you a bore.

Always said it was sex and nothing more.

Here I am.

There you are.

I want you to listen.

But I shake when I talk.

I want to be interesting.

I want to be cool.

I need you to listen.

I need someone to listen.

All I do is listen.

And Watch.

I don't get it. Like you want to express yourself to someone, but they're a dick? Then why bother? You already allegedly insulted them for their shit anyway

Oh this poem isn't about me. I just came up with really depressing things to think about and this is what I wrote in a two minute span.

Yeah, but what's the narrative here? Because within its own context it's befuckled.

I would like to think its a man who had found a love in his life. In his own thoughts he would call her easy and a "whore." as if to suggest that he had low esteem for anyone to want to fuck him and be with him. Leading on to call her a bore sometimes in order to show dominance in the relationship.

Maybe he really doesn't want just sex that most would normally want. Just someone to talk to and reflect thoughts on that one would find in a friend. Perhaps she doesn't want any of that and just wants a quick fuck every once In a while, further igniting his thoughts that she is nothing more than just a "whore." and wishing that it could be more.

Wild Things

They say the wild things sing.

Coming in for a lazy fling.

Bruising cold, swollen broken throats, a lover quarrel in the making.

Would you know, a shallow broken soul, Come in to fill my bowl with dreams.

It cuts deep, she would never weep, go along and sweep my heart away.

They say the Wild Things sing, and because of this we never dream.