Well, some are so bad I’m not sure they qualify as poems.
And he smelled like orange. And that was enough. I was enough.
Can I have someone to talk to
Who will tell me if I’m racist.
Because I’m uncertain.
Can I stop saying, “that’s racist,”
And figure out the whys and the hows.
That way I won’t be scared when the black guy starts yelling outside my house.
You may not share my wheel
It is mine.
It is no toy.
I’m stuck for life.
My brother told me
He said that he likes football
He gets to hit some guys.
When he went away that he missed
Why can he hit people with his shoulders.
When I can’t hit anyone with my words?
I’d like to be funny.
It shouldn’t take so much work to be funny.
I’m just mean instead.
Mean on accident.
But I mean,
I’m not trying to be mean.
I just want to seep out my misery, and the words seem to be the best way.
I was wrong again.
I’ve moved back home.
I also answer my phone as though I am the directory operator for the rings of hell.
For the first ring of hell, you want to speak to my mother
For the second circle of terror you want to press the number 3 and you’ll reach my brother
The place I was once stuck has changed into a different type of prison.
Now I want to leave, and can, but I can’t,
I have a piece of paper that says where I was once trapped I now trap myself.
I’m going to make some pasta. Then cry in a ball. Like I do every day.
Everyday, I ask myself, will I be like this forever?
I hope not.
But there’s something wrong. And I haven’t changed anything. So it will keep getting wronger.
And I’ll keep crying.
I’m sure that will help.
My father weds the couples.
My mother gets money when they split.
And they always do. Or they should.
In all my years I’ve never seen a happy pair.
No, that’s a lie. I’ve seen two patients with dementia who couldn’t remember each other’s names, but they looked happy. And there was applesauce on their shirts.
No love for me.
No passion here.
The closest I come is bagels.
My dog Ashley can’t get up the stairs.
So she sits at the bottom and cries.
She looks at me as though I should be able to fix it.
She puts her head on my hand.
Then goes to stand under the case.
And she looks at me.
And I see her.
The gray in her fur.
The rippled veins on her slim face.
The cloud in her eyes.
The limp in her paw.
And I say, “I’m sorry, but I don’t know how to help.”
I tell her I don’t know what I can do.
And she puts her nose on my leg.
Walks over to the stair case.
And looks up.
Do I really want to be better
Or do I want to have more to talk about
And a place to go
And someone who’s waiting for me.
I don’t want to wait on another person.
Because you know what that means.
That the person you’re waiting for is more important than you.
That they have the power.
You are subject to the clock and whims.
Here you are sitting down. Staring at air.
Waiting for the day.