R.I.P Poetry

Rest in peace to my forgotten ideas

Ideas that may have been genius

Ideas that maybe have gotten me to go somewhere with my dumb fucking life 

My dumb broke life 

My rich, genius, forgotten ideas 

The poor things must be cold 

So forgotten, so alone

Maybe someone can save them 

Or not, 

Either way none of these ideas really mattered,

They never even existed, 

So rest in peace

You will be forgotten  



Sex is fun you see?

So I know it’s good for me.

Missionary, doggy and sixty nine

Got me feeling mighty fine

Sex is like a sandwich

You can put anything on that fluffy bread

So dont be a pillow bitch!

Before he leaves you, give better head!

Cloud Nine

I’m feeling good

I’m feeling fine

The weed makes me feel like I’m on cloud nine

Finishing a warm beer from the night before

Dont want to waste even more

Drawing and writing while I’m creative

Until my hands and my brain are sore


The blade calls and it beckons my name, 

I can’t cut again 

I can’t feel the shame 

The shame a bloody arm gave

A bloody arm cut down to the bone

My skin would scream that I’m all alone

Sleeved shirts in the summer and jeans at the beach 

The infected skin is the color of a pale peach

The bloody arm is sliced again 

I’m nowhere to go and without a friend

Sitting at the table with my mom, picking at my food 

She asks where my smile went, and why I’m in a dull mood

Rolling up my sleeves, with all the bravery my heart can take 

“Help me” I say, and my mother drops her plate