I called him “Bukowski”,
because he wrote with the same disdain as the poet,
and succumbed to all the same vices.

He loved to drink,
He loved to smoke,
and he loved women,
one in particular,

He wrote often.
He would lay on the couch,
cigarette lit,
and write,
while I played sloppy chord progressions on the piano,
because I was drunk,
not on alcohol,
but on love.

And although he possessed Bukowski’s vices,
he did not possess his face.
There were no boils,
or scars,
just the bluest eyes I had ever seen.

I called him “Bukowski”,
but I eventually had to stop calling,
he was too Bukowski.
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Bittersweet Symphony

Last night,
I was the girl in glasses,
alone at a bar,
with a book,
which basically made me,
a sitting duck.

I knew this,
but I had gone to hear my friend play his guitar,
and I was going solo,
so if I was going to be a sitting duck,
I was going to be one with a book.

this sitting duck thing,
made me subject,
to one drink offer,
and two inappropriate questions,
from a total of three strangers.

I was about to close my book and leave,
when my friend with the guitar,
asked me to accompany him on piano,
and I suddenly became,
the happiest sitting duck in town!


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Fast Love

I should probably put the pen down,
because I might make a mess,
but there’s a few things here,
I want to confess.

I just dyed my hair,
because I thought I saw a random grey,
I bought new jeans with holes in them,
because I thought they’d make me feel okay.

I’ve been playing the piano,
in a semi-full on rage,
and I unfriended someone on Facebook,
simply because she just got engaged.

I’m eating oatmeal for dinner,
because I’m too lazy to cook,
I’m writing this poem in my underwear,
and no,
you can’t take a look.

I know it’s not much,
the degree to what I’ve confessed,
but stay tuned,
and I promise,
to let you know the rest.

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Eye Scream

I tried to make the piano scream last night.
I struck the keys so hard,
that I could feel my fingers bruising more and more,
with each passing measure.
In that moment,
I don’t think I cared if they broke,
I needed my song to be heard.

Ironic thing was,
it wasn’t even “my song”.
It was a cover of  “Lovesong” by The Cure.
on this particular night,
I decided,
last minute,
on purpose,
to close my set with it.

there I am,
pounding on the keys,
stirring up a symphony of sound,
when I realized,
the piano didn’t need to scream,
I did.

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Enjoy the Silence

It’s Sunday night,
and I only write poems on Fridays.
This is a problem,
there is a poem stuck inside,
and though it’s near the surface,
the next five days,
are going to feel,
like an eternity in hell,
It’s Sunday night,
and I only write poems on Fridays.

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Fly Me to the Moon

Gray colored hair,
a striped pocket shirt,
Gap jeans with white Rockports,
and yellow pound cake for dessert.

It’s been 8 years since you passed,
forever an unfathomable loss,
your heart had failed,
and silenced your voice.

You’re going to miss everything,
I’m not even sure what that is,
but you’re missing this part,
the part I thought,
would never again exist.

It sucks that I can’t show you,
my ID badge,
or the PowerPoint presentation,
I gave to that class.

Or tell you I’m now the project manager,
“Special Projects” to be exact,
and that totally unrelated,
I have a blog,
where I kinda talk smack.

I don’t know if you can read this,
from up above,
but I miss you dad,
from your daughter,
with love.

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Pictures of You

And it’s Friday night,
And i’m driving around,
And “that song” came on,
And suddenly it’s 2004 again,
And he was going to be a rock star,
And he played bass until his fingers bled,
And his band became family,
And we stayed out all night,
And this went on for years,
And we knew it couldn’t last,
And it didn’t.

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