Poems from clichesandclassics

I write too much word vomit. Everything that comes out is a jumble of emotions and morbidity that sometimes sounds articulate.
i feel him on my nerves my fucking last nerve.  He’s tap dancing on it the points of the god damn shoes cutting into the tendrils the...
Maybe I'll end up like Sylvia Plath; carbon monoxide halting my respiration, two children asleep in their beds protected by scraps of...
If I could, I would write you a symphony. Not any symphony, no.   I would write you a piece so strong that its melody would electrocute...