I’ve got no choice,
then to walk in
and get a drink
a sandwich it seems
what else’s would be a
my stomach grumbles
less of an
a human me
life is somewhat fleeting
if I don’t
without a small fruit drink
or some water.
as water drips from a faucet.
as a woman parks a car
between two doors that will need to open
as the news goes on, sufficient enough,
as I decide what I’m waiting for,
nothing less then a mental need
where hunger is the deep feeling
not a glass nor plastic drink.
the line moves on
I’m now closer,
a glass door /
in the beginning there’s always this poem inside of my mind,
it feels as if
happens each and every time i want to write a poem,
something like then wanting to speak up of
but i don’t know what of
so i, each time, begin to write
these birds outside
or these trees i see, and end up writing
within the poem
she (she; she: to me ..).
for some reason.
perhaps its pertinence
nonetheless an important need, that
comes to haunt a person’s
thoughts whenever a male person’s mind opens, up, for a presently-beating heart
rather then asking.
a clock: ticks
after his aids left the man in disgrace,
they all came over to meet sometime in the afternoon
well the aids remain,
on a hospital bed
left to dead,
i don’t mean to rhyme this poem,
number to order a pizza for 8,
for him, self.
thomas f dixon jr, an american romantic
to hate a person,
enough to write a novel of
those who killed for
nothing less then to
their selves on
other women and men,
and a man of cloth at that
a minister, purveyor of holy facts
thomas f. dixon jr! Sir!
I beg of me to respect at least some of u for u’ve
existed enough to deserve at least
god bless his family, he’s now gone.
god bless us all, thomas f. dixon jr is now gone.
a, nice, small, wild, plant
a wild stem less plant
for miss nice white belted pants,
so that I
been to france somewhat,
got no other choice but to
compete in life, so
worn the shoes that I feel u’ll like and a baseball hat.
a wild plant, I’ve picked, a yellow one, walking, inside of a hand used to not
doing much about life.
so, is this love? ours.
a finished version of a modern woman
she feels the urge to
to which I concur to
for someone’s meat and some fries from some paper bag or
bag of chips as a side of a big, person’s, dinner meal
after so much dedication
which came from an
aesthetic emancipation if u will
(a picture shown) from around this!.
now he’s looking too close
as I have.
it’s either she or u it seems.
a male or female friend
the worst of ur kind, u feel u’ve / u’ve
ruined her life.
bottom of a mug
the top of a cup
a pile of mug
black for some white
she runs the course.
u can look if u’d like.
look, if u’d like to, now.
a metaphor for / a present past
wife of a serious man,
woman to a husband u’ve found for ur self
and u’re wearing red shoes
ur hands help u stand, ur hands on ur
I stand outside right near painted wood of a small round kiosk
I’m scared, afraid somewhat
as cars do drive around me, here
I stand outside and I do look inside
at a picture I’ve often seen
in a horrid dream
as much as this poem is a dream to me.
inside of a window, I wait outside.
u’re inside of a window, inside of which I look.
both of our doors closed,
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