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Philosophical Phuckin' Pomes

Updated: Oct 25, 2022

Descending Blame

My favorite writers are those who do not write,

They lay awake staring at the ceiling all night,

They're to find the words that fit just right,

Soaked in a pool of self loathing,

Alcohol and smoke stained clothing,

Thinking and thinking of ideas but never really knowing,

Ideas at their best are prevalent but never showing,

Falling from their pedestals like flakes when it’s snowing,

Determined to be forever learning and continuously growing,

Brilliant ideas pass just like time flies,

Lost in the darkness like a child’s helpless cries,

They can write and think all of these different things,

But until the ink has left the pen little joy it will bring,

For the trouble is not in the process of thought,

But how each line of your vernacular is eventually topped,

Every salesman knows this can’t be bought,

Every teacher can knows this can’t be taught,

And every officer knows it can't be caught,

But they all know once started it cannot be stopped,

Words inside your head twisted, screwed, and chopped,

Making decisions they said would never be made,

They are writing rules to a game that only they have played,

It is a beast of burden that they have all tried to tame,

They are often ritticuled, beaten, scared, and shamed,

Their minds are drug, love and booze stained,

They are my favorite writers and for each of my mistakes,

They are the ones to blame.


My fear is the end.

Finally able to breath.

Finally able to see.

Finally able to be set free.

I write about things that are corrupt,

I write about sobriety and drugs,

I write about lust and love.

I write about age even with you in mind.

I hope to never have this feeling end,

Knowing I want you and not just your kind.

I could write about unrelenting justice,

Or bend the rules with chaos and crime.

But I will not write about the end,

That is to come in due time.


poets names and punch lines

weed, drink, and drugs of all kinds

we sit and laugh while we play with words

toy with bent definitions until they're absurd

fool around and drink until we pass out

nobody brings their old troubles around

here is a room of the greatest minds

it's full of poets names and punch lines

The Writer

If I ever had the chance to talk, I would not speak.

It would not be my voice, for that is not weak,

If I had a gun, I would never fight.

Not because of political views, left or right.

Even if I had hands, I would never feel.

Though I will still grasp an immense deal,

For don’t you fucking see?

I am the pen,

and you are the soul within me...

What I've written

Written over a hundred poems,

With over a thousand left to go,

Not as if I have anything to show,

Departed self loathing is all I know,

The problem is too much room to grow,

With dirt to plow and just no seeds to sew,

So I watch the cows walk and the wind blow,

Not everything can go as you want it to go.

My Pride

Mop blood off the tile,

We’re gonna be around awhile,

Your marathon won’t last a mile,

Moves can’t be made no matter how agile,

Took your whole life and half your fuckin' smile,

Dreams of walking you in handcuffs down the aisle,

Known about you long before all this was compiled,

I may not be too violent but am I too hostile,

You are as tough as I am fragile,

Letting you coast along just isn’t my style,

But I couldn’t turn you down with full control of the dial,

You killed my ego but will never see a trial.


I never saw a crow in that damn place.

Yet, I always saw those lines on her face.

Hair withered, tattered, and split.

It looked like a straight nest.

She still managed to look good, but you know, it was never her best.

She had the tracks in her arm as she followed the train.

Fuck, she’d follow anything that may help her escape the pain.

She used to have achievable ambitions that were as high as the stars.

Take a look now and life has set her down in the gutter outside the bars.

She still blamed life, and her family still blamed the drugs.

Yet they both knew she had given up.

Nothing in today’s life was ever enough.

The little rich girl had done everything including almost go broke.

She had done everything just for another needle, drink, or puff of smoke.

She was the kind of women that could turn it around if she really wanted to.

The problem was she couldn’t forget the one thing she didn’t want to.

Every time the life passed like rain on a windshield in front of her eyes.

Every time it passed through her memory again it just left her traumatized .

Her decisions left scars up and down her arms.

Somehow they didn’t compare to the ones it left on her heart.

It killed her career, her dreams, it killed everything she touched in part.

She could feel she was close to the end and so ever far from the start.

She has the picture painted of the day her idol walked up and left.

She walked through an open door, into the pool of crimson blood, and the stench of death.

The tear rolled down her face.

She sat in the warm room cold and shivering in place.

To be in her shoes was all she wanted, really that’s all she ever fuckin'craved

Now she stood on the street and begged.

She wanted a temporary escape.

Her single mother raised her and taught her all she knew.

The problem is she was in front of her teenage daughter and took it much too soon.

So as she drank a bottle of tears littered with prescription pills

Followed with whiskey, smoke, and chocolate hoping all together it would kill.

Her mother, even dead, had been her best friend.

She would do whatever it took to see her again.


I may have been born yesterday but I’ve been up all night.

Flicked the switch, prayed, and still didn’t see the light.

Never had to fire it, but still packed up for a fight.

I mean I could call you out and tell you I was right, but does that make it right?

Love and Hate

I hate all the things I love

Love all the things I hate

Have taken all the drugs, and none that great

Girl by my side whose face is filled with hate

Rather be at home with my friends

But I’m locked outside heaven’s gates

Skipping words and passing time

I am trying to pass the time,

I am trying to find words that rhyme,

Find the starlight and make it shine,

But most of me is much too fuckin' strange,

Check since you knew me last, ten bucks says I have changed,

A brilliant man once told me I'm not to blame,

If he was right why do I have no cares and less shame,

No I tell them it’s not that I don't feel pain,

They don't understand.

So I skip rocks and try to explain

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