H_NGM_N
This poem is killing me.
By the twenty-sixth incorrect guess,
I’ve tallied up my
head, torso, arms, legs, fingers, toes
and gallows,
but since my vowels were disemboweled,
I’m dead.
Hope is a Hot Air Balloon Flying by the Power Lines
Hope is a hot air balloon flying by the power lines,
so don’t fly too high
or you’ll fry,
zap, crackle, pop!
But if you go too low
you might knock off
the hanging kitty
dangling by one
paw’s single claw
on the high wire
without a net.
It would be
a pity for it
to let go.
Red Rose
I gave her
the final rose
on the bush
but she let
each petal
wilt away…
…she loves me,
she loves me not,
she loves me,
she loves me not…
Before the first
frost of winter,
the beheaded stem
regenerated one
more flower…
…she loves me,
she loves me not.
This Poem is a Metaphor (Because She Never Smiles for Similes)
This poem is a metaphor
for more than this world’s
vocabulary of words,
or the girl that pours
out of my fountain pen
into caricature letters
of her curvature figure
of speech, standing
as a silent silhouette
before the peephole
of the soul,
but my mind’s eye is blind
when viewing my sentence
in the imprisonment
of punctuations,
as we are locked in a trance
of transference through
the broken window of
a glass home.
This poem is a metaphor
because she never smiles for similes.
Vampires Suck
I don’t care
if she makes me
cum or bleed,
as long as she
sucks all of
the life out
of me.
