Category: Poetry

Escape Artist – Poem

In books I learn 

In writing I disappear…

I wonder why I feel the 

need to disappear in the first place?

why is existing so terrible? 

Perhaps it’s dull? 

or maybe because we

feel the need to strive, to fight, to create?

I didn’t have any expectations 

growing up

Though, there were

a lot of promises

made

I find that children are the best

escape artists

because they disappear 

all the time 

even though they

are the ones that see the world

through an explorers eyes

perhaps living has always been 

dull?

Look around the corner,

What could it be?

that’s interesting,

not what it actually is

We got tired of that shit at age 3

by Stamphers

life probably mean something, somewhere

and society is obsessed with health

survival at any cost

What’s so frightening about dying?

We don’t know

but the Christians do

but they are scared anyhow

they broke a rule and

now they don’t think they’ll

make it

they fucked up.

Catholics have it easy, though

they just have to be sorry

and pay the priest

and they’re good

But the church has to be more lenient

because they’re at war

 or whatever 

Most religions say you have to

be a good boy

love people 

and whatnot

and love yourself 

I can agree with that

if you love yourself 

you haven’t done anything bad  

Despite what anyone else say

I find it funny that Christians banned 

suicide at some point

probably because 

people were killing themselves 

left and right

when they thought they had

ticket to heaven

Why wait?

Why risk it?

by Stamphers

The two bookstore chicks – Poem

I buy stuff from them a lot

and  

they know me by name

I haven’t asked for theirs.

They’re not particularly beautiful 

but they know me

which is more than I can say about

most women.

I purchase poetry

and they probably think I’m

that kind of guy

maybe I am.

What is a person that read poetry?

let alone one who writes it?

Two bookstore chicks

they think they know me

I order stuff they don’t have

I only read the rarest of tomes

you see

like a true artist, eh?

Two bookstore chicks

Do I want them?

No

Do they want me?

I dunno

probably not

A chat doesn’t hurt

just to dispel

my ego.

by Stamphers

A letter to the waiter – Poem

Empty beer glasses

and bottles

are my price

It’s my scoreboard

and I feel good looking at them

proud even

because awhile ago,

I didn’t drink beer

(at all)

So don’t take them away

dear waiter

don’t take away my self respect

My proof

that I’m one of you guys now

the drinkers

and I get it now

I truly do.

by Stamphers

I don’t understand 

Why they 

Insist 

On

Blasting heavy metal music

At

Bars. 

Blast my head off 

I don’t mind voices

Voices are muddled 

non-existent

just noise

It’s a talent from school

to tune out their drivel

I don’t mind crowds

I can stand a two on two conversation

but three make me cringe

back into myself

and I don’t talk

Because I don’t have to

by Stamphers

I’m 35 – Poem

and what’s that 

supposed to mean?

Half way to retirement?

The tail end of fatherhood?

People 10 years

Younger than me

say that I’m an old fart?

And people 

10 years older than me

Look at me 

Like a I’m a kid?

Nothing changes

I’ll die and

I’m step closer to that

Is that such a sad thing?

by Stamphers

Charles Bukowski

That guy,

he picked my brain.

and he’s dead.

I want to mirror him

the real deal.

He’s funny

and doesn’t give a crap.

He taught me that

poetry

isn’t just about flowers

That deep things

can be said through

harsh words.

Well, enough that

I’m not here to suck

the man’s

dick

by Stamphers

It’s worse than it seems – Poem

I really really despise

my job

But the guy can’t live without me

and he’s only getting worse.

Once I could write a lot at work

because he was tired and quiet

but now he’s hollering like a monkey

I can hardly stand it.

His illness have suddenly produced lungs!

But I can’t complain

it’s literally impossible.

Because I don’t work at a factory,

I don’t work at an office

I don’t have a manager breathing down my neck

I got nothing of that

But he chokes on everything he eats

I couldn’t care less

I’ve worked there for too long

by Stamphers

Live hard is hardly living – Poem

Death comes the psycho

often in small ways

Most of us die slowly

Some do whatever they can to stay alive.

They burn

One can only guess what’s on their mind.

The bones are the first that become brittle

but regardless they burn

if hot enough

and they don’t stop burning

not even in the ground.

They never lived the present

and they remembered the past through rose tinted glasses

and always thought about the future.

That’s no way to live.

Day by day,

Minute by minute,

life goes on.

until it doesn’t

and then–

Indulge in the things that destroy you…

Why the hell not?

by Stamphers