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Suicide is easier than waiting for you.
by Johnny CrimsonAn instinct that predates man.
Children sneezing in a corn field, giggling under a half moon that barely cares about the world below it.
The bakers wife disappeared this morning.
Tracing your right hand with your left hand.
There's symmetry
in madness,
such brilliance
surfaces when:
you let me "sit" next to you on the bus and
my mind maps out every ditch from here to school
I could fuck and leave you in.
I've got new faded jeans, new sunglasses to boot,
and an old pair of shoes, worn like your skin, and a
new girl walks by, something about the thrill of it.
You sit on my couch with your boyfriend and I'm tempted
to smell the cushions after you exit, just to make sure that
you're still the same dream I've always "known".
But to an extent,
when the hard-on fades,
and I'm down for the count,
it's lov...
The fuck am I saying?
Spark this dick
and throb like my pulse
in this nocturnal fuck-box of imagination!
Your day will come.
08/04/2009 Posted on 08/05/2009
Copyright © 2025 Johnny Crimson
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Anne Boulender on 08/05/09 at 03:40 AM I remember me and this other making fun of this rocker guy in the tenth grade (we went to an "alternative" school for losers about to drop out of highschool for a few months before we actually dropped out). His name was Jesse and he wasn't fat, but his pants just didn't fit him right for some reason. I think he listened to stuff like Slayer and Metallica. Anyway, one day we were waiting at a bus stop with him and he said: "Your day will come". Man was he right. |
| Posted by Anne Boulender on 08/05/09 at 03:40 AM I forgot to finish with: that day came over and over again. It is still coming. |
| Posted by Nanette Bellman on 08/09/09 at 06:20 PM The title alone speaks volumes. I have sniffed cushions for remnants of what I covented might have left behind. |
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