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Mas mas poetry.

Screw that

I am not wrath. But damn I do hate it when
People grab me
Pick me up
And bite on my head just to put me down again.
I am not a saint but Jesus Christ,
Please put my cap back on.
I must be in Hell.
They use me
And use me.
I do not need feelings to know what I am worth.
Less than the blood you pour out of me.
Less than the paper you scrap when you are done.
I don't see you biting
That page
Or that desk.
Not even a fork gets this kind of treatment.
I am as valuable as the air you breath.
You are nothing without me.
How else will you tell anyone anything?
Stain the page with your blood?

I wonder

You know and I wonder.
So please tell me...
Why don't the stray cats ever say hello?
Aren't all gardens for eating?
What is so pretty about a plant's sex organs?
Doesn't the infinite dog conference bother anyone else?
If getting drunk makes you sick why do you do it?
Does hiding in the cover make my problems go away?
Can you build a pillar to the moon?
Will the problems ever go away?
What is world 'piece' anyway?
Don't the moths know the flame will burn them?
Is there really a worst time?
How many questions can I ask without sounding negative?
What are the chances of the sky falling?
What is a poem?

You say worn, I say soft

Gray by default but black with time. My skin grows flimsy with each passing month. The children that stabbed me with their sharp fingers now stroke my arms and leave their hair.
I was once a monument to my time. Firm and rough now sags and fluffs. There was one that always treated me the same. He gave me an eye each passing day.
The years passed and that one no longer came. Did they leave him on the side of the road?
I have trouble making my legs kick and my back stiffens with every touch and go.
The years still come and go. I saw the babies grow to have babies.
I have seen every show on television.
I have seen every graduation and every birthday.
I saw his funeral. There was no side of the road. Not for ones like him.
They tire of me, this I know. My legs won't kick without a good shove.
My back flops with an ounce of strain.
I want a funeral not a side of the road. I have been here as long as that one.
Please, Oh lord God, don't leave me on the side of the road.
Please God, just let this couch die.



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