Thumb Poetry: Unpunctuated

Everyday
Ambient noise
Is hardly
An easy medium

Words are
Dropped in,
Dragged down
And drowned.

A few float.
Cling to them
For dear life.
Even false ones.

Thumb Poetry: Useless

It is always
A not there.
A blank page,
Or whatever.
It is enough.

Never enough
Nothing, though.
That is always
Missing, thanks to
These paradoxes.

More accurate
To stay silent,
But who cares
About the mark
At this hour.

Thumb Poetry: Shroom fag

A good hit
Tells you that
There is no
Real, sweet escape
From the present.

It is appalling
When it hits,
Because there is
That hit that
Does bow out.

I dropped ashes
On the floor
Like a baby.
Someone has to
Clean that up.

Thumb Poetry: White wine

Ecstasy is
Five pounds away
At the cornerstore,
Bottled in rows
Of stinky liquid.

You can stand
Next to yourself
Until there is
Nobody to stand
Next to left.

Sadly, this makes
Grammar studies
Impossibly difficult,
And most things
That require selves.

Thumb Poetry: Women

Lost interest in
The little worlds
Girls create
And women try
To escape.

It must be
The time of year.
Nights grow long
And solitude
More inviting.

Maybe I'm ripe
For the picking.
Fermenting fruit
Tend to perk
Ready appetites.

Thumb Poetry: Bully

It is easy
To get bullied
Into thinking
Apathy necessary.
(Empty line)

Bullied into
Thinking about
The absurdity
Of being bullied
Into apathy.

And finding
Salvation meshed
With porous faith,
Always unable
To kick free.

Thumb Poetry: Woodcock

Words made dear
By laying samples
Of one atop
Another and other
Over and over.

Repeat and repeat
(Smoke a scented
Cigarette again),
And repeat again.
Find any clarity.

A hedonistic
Greco-Roman
Practice, this.
Done it since
My eyes opened.

Mom said this
Will ruin them.
Be it so.
Less distractions
To overcome.