addiction
enter a dimensional orgasmic journey
woven with time and space,
bestowing you,
like crown to king,
to sacrificial momentary pleasure
at the low low price of
happiness.
ride these highs often enough to forget
that they are
plunging depths of pyrite charisma
like Ted Bundy,
like Jesus,
like the mirror when it tells you who you are.
time folds in on you like a Mobius strip
and you almost don’t notice
that you are handing over your infinite past to
the hell-bent clutches
of a lie.
you are the pride and joy of a sociopath,
your willpower the arm candy of your own misery.
there are holes in your psyche
leaking fear into your bloodstream and
you can’t live without them.
“poem about trees with undertones of dick but also like an important lesson”
(or: "poetry prompt from drunk gay friend")
One morning in the wood came he
A twinkle in his eye
As twee a sprig as sprigs can be
His mouth was gaping wide.
In the great Sequoia forest
Entranced he was by size
“Daddy, it’s so big,” he said
It shoots up to the sky!”
As eager boys are wont to do
He begged his Dad for seeds
But his backyard’s not big enough
For a Sequoia tree.
Upon a stump he sat and cried
Unripe to bear the load
’Til “son, we’ll plant a smaller tree,
And you can watch it grow.”
Well twee a sprig (as sprigs can be)
He spun a roundabout
Inside he felt a burst of glee
And gaily pranced about.
Like any friend of Dorothy sure
No place like home he knew
Though ruby slippers had he not
A red maple would do.
Into the dirt they put in work
Digging in with a hoe
Tossing their seeds inside the pit
And covering the hole.
Sapling young to sturdy and stiff
The maple did yet rise
A hammock hung between its boughs
It was the perfect size.
But the maple heard the legends
Of trunks so thick and long
Ne’er a wanderer on the earth
to fit one in their arms.
Standing strong with reddened tips
Erect against the breeze
Inside still felt itself cut down—
The stumpiest of trees.
Tapped for sap to feed the boy
All the syrup it can give
It still felt drained and impotent
Naught but a hollow twig.
One morning in the yard came he
With friends he brought to swing
And climb and hide and play and jest
Hung on the maple’s wings.
“If I could be contented so…”
The tree mused to itself
“For if I had a larger trunk
Perhaps I’d be more help.”
Beneath its bark the biting thoughts
The boy would woe to see
The maple was his pride and joy
Arisen from his seed.
(Plus his backyard would never fit
A big Sequoia tree.)