Daydreaming and then, maybe, writing a poem about it. And that's my life.
Well, after you write enough and try to publish for long enough you just notice it There is no such thing as good or bad poetry. There's just poetry to which people can relate and poetry to which people can't relate. And that makes all the difference in the world.
like a baby left for hours and hours in a hot car he woke up with a sweaty forehead and a buzz in his temples no room to stretch he got out of the car in his underwear shook his legs and hands rubbed the pain away from his knees and back of the neck There was a bottle of water he got from the park fountain among the litter in the back seat he opened it hot took a sip and swirled it around his mouth spat took another sip swirled spat that’s for dental hygiene He put on pants and a shirt locked the car and walked 50 paces to the nearest public restroom where he removed his shirt and washed his hairy armpits He studied the violet circles under his eyes in the mirror checked his teeth his tongue felt for wax in his ears put on a professional smile went to the public library and the desk by the window was free His smile grew brighter as he sat down and opened the notebook Chapter 86 would be next in the manuscript He looked out the window This writer life was precisely as romantic as he thought it’ll be no more no less
This morning he sent his third part (third time) of poems that we will publish every Wednesday. I personally thank the author who has many followers who value his written work.
j re crivello founder of Masticadores (*)
life’ll smile father punched him lightly in the shoulder and said, "Hey, keep that chin up, buddy. Just know that a time will come when life'll smile at us." Sure, he'd been saying that since forever. That was the earliest and most common memory of him Grinning from ear to ear and saying that a day will come when life'll smile upon them But until that day they'll have to sit in the town square and play their cheap instruments for passersby to drop money in their box Keep that chin up… Oh, father. You can't play the violin holding your chin up And life won't smile if you keep playing it…
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you can only see through the keyhole but you’re never meant to go through the door She wrote the words on a napkin as she watched from her lone table the couple holding hands and kissing a few tables away Then she turned the napkin on the other side and wrote Maybe I should just stop searching and start writing poetry followed by a smiley face that she copied with her own
the little building was made of wood though it looked sturdy enough the high windows were barred and he could only see part of the girl’s face as she called out to him from inside “If you got a good drill,” she said, “you could make a hole in the wall and stick it in. I’ll take care of the rest real nice for you.” “What?” he said “What? Don’t you wanna help a poor girl in distress, Mister?” He blinked. “How... would that help?” “Tremendously,” she said. “If you get me pregnant it’ll mean I’ll be set free.” But somebody else called out to him before he could ask his next ‘what?’ A man coming from behind the building. “Hey! It’s off limits here, stranger. Away with you before trouble sparks, got it?” The girl disappeared from the window He raised his hands slowly and backed away apologizing to…
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Dad was fat all his life Obese He couldn’t do a lot of things. Walk without special help Bathe Climb stairs Sit in a normal chair Drive a normal car Sleep in a normal bed And say “I love you, son.” To draw those words out of his dad he became a cartoonist, but that also failed. And now that his father was dead, collapsed face down on the kitchen floor, blood seeping out of a head wound, he struggled to turn him over on his back and dipped his finger in the blood and drew a speech bubble next to his father’s head and wrote in it the famous words. Finally. “I love you too, dad.”
because it’s nice to be young because it’s nice to be in your early to mid twenties and it’s nice to do the thing after you’ve done the thing the thing that comes after you’ve done the thing is always the same but the thing that leads to the thing is often different this night it was white powder they shared it neatly between each other and then climbed into bed “Christ,” he said. “I still can’t believe you sucked dick for this shit. And a carload of it. What was it, like four, five guys?” “Oh, shut your hole, you pauper-ass. If you had a job like a decent motherfucker I wouldn’t have to do that shit, you know?” “Shit, baby, don’t make this trip worse than it is.” “You started it.” “Whatever, let’s just get to the next thing already.” “I haven’t even bathed. You know, after taking on that carload…” But it was too late to think. the first thing kicked in hard and it lead to the other and a brain wasn’t needed for any of them and the cold wind blew through the broken window and dried their sweat
They had the poor girl lie on the cold tile floor and then they all pissed on her and you could hear them tell her to open her mouth wide and stick her tongue out It was one of the poorest videos on the site but the women watching it recognized the girl She went to the same high school as them back in the day So trashy porn is what she turned to Not exceptionally unusual, but one of the kids running in the park before them was her child Just eight or nine "You know," said one of them. "Like it or not it's just a matter of time until our sons catch wind of this and then..." "Oh my..." "Goodness!" "The sins of the parents are visited upon the children. It's not fair. Imagine the life her poor kid's gonna have." "Yeah, our own kids might very well be the bullies, we'll never know. Like I said, it's a matter of time..." "Well, goodness, what can we do about it?" "Flag the video?" "You know it won't work..." "Oh, I got an idea. What if... you know, what if we all uploaded sexy vids of us. Um, not necessarily as trashy as this one but just pornographic enough. The boys won't be able to gang up and bully one if all their mothers did it... Right? C'mon, let's do it for that poor kid. Think about his future..." The other mothers looked at her and they kept looking mute until one of them pulled out her smartphone
those cold evenings coming inside the house and crying "Mom, I'm hungry." A whirl on the heels A stare colder than the outside weather Hands on her hips "Show me your tongue." The little mouth opens and the tongue comes out She stares at it and then grabs it between her thumb and index and studies it, gives it a rub and declares: "No. You're not that hungry. Get out of here and leave me alone." And her words carry the finality of God's words from the Bible because she is the god of this small world and her word is law
Here it is. THE MUSE'S BAD TOUCH A collection of dark poems highlighting the toxic and deadly relationship between poet and muse. DISCLAIMER: suitable only for a mature audience. D' you like the cover? I designed it myself ∩(・ω・)∩ Check out the free sample poems (and maybe leave a review). Thanks! I don't wanna say that the poems contained in this book are dark. It would sound pretentious right off the bat. But, yeah, between dark and light, you know already where they stand.
Daydreaming as a profession 