Tally It Up

This keeping score
will be the knife
stuck in our backs,
the night
needs more.

A fading light
that we ignored,
despite the facts,
the floor.



you ran down the stairs
and into his car
like he had your heart

and maybe he did
there was nothing i could do
but i still watched
still dreamt

as a semi
cut us in half
and we were forever
mutually exclusive

It’s a slow, painful death,
and isn’t that the worst kind?

There won’t be enough
of us to turn it around,

so why don’t we put the planet
out of its misery?

I mean, put us
out of its misery,

speed up the process,
allow it to expel us
like spoiled food digested.

Let’s all drive massive,
gas-leeching tanks,

leave the water running
in every sink

while we sleep
like babies.

Let’s not think of the future
because there isn’t one
because we don’t think of the future.

Let’s keep on pretending
the villains are heroes.

Bonus Poem!

Hey, everyone. Just wanted to share the latest poem from my tumblr page. You can check out all of my previous posts here: https://theimpromptupoet.tumblr.com. Thanks for reading. ❤


we’re all happy
aren’t we

c r a c k
a smile

like an egg
spill our guts

if we have any



The guilt, the realization
this will never be recovered, pulls
at my bones, threatens to snap.

I can move on
all I want

the dreams won’t quit

the moment
there’s vulnerability.

I push back sleep,
spend hours staring into the carpet
like I’ll see into some soul
that never was.

Do you hate me?
I know the answer
even if you pretend you don’t.

Chewed up, thrown up
on the table
we used to sit around.

At my lowest point
and I still don’t want to die,
but it gets harder
to breathe easy.

Rock bottom
and I still don’t cry,
my heart getting harder
as my head gets dizzy.


One screen to the next:
phone then TV then laptop then desktop.
A cycle of blue glow against eyes
then troubled sleep before it all starts again.

I witness firsthand the effects,
any attention secondhand; trickle-down love,
it works as well as it does in economics
until I start to believe I deserve only a drop
in return,

my mouth perpetually dry and unable
to form enough saliva to speak up for myself, to express
how a room can be so warm and I (or we) so cold
that no amount of heating can make up for this.

What does it say about us (or you) [or me] that
I feel closer to you when we’re apart? You make it all
sound so sweet, missing me, wanting to be near.
But then when we are, there’s a screen blocking out
the union of our gaze and the blue sets in again.

Noise at 3:37am

You’re David Johnson.
If you had any friends they’d call you Dave.
Common as dirt kind of name. You’re Dave
and you’re cleaning your rifle.
You’re trying to clean your rifle but
Mitch in the apartment below you
has got his music on again.
Very loud. It’s 3:34am
and his music is too loud.
It’s distracting. It’s Satan.
That’s what religion does. You’re worried
the woman above you is going to accuse you
of what Mitch is doing.
That you’ll end up on the street
because of that asshole. It’s 3:35am
and you’re gonna kill him so you’re cleaning your rifle.
You’ve got hours to spare
but no elbow room for silence.
Mitch is noisy, inconsiderate.
The woman upstairs is nosey, illiterate.
And you’re Dave, sandwiched between them.
3:35am still. A second floor prisoner.
You’re David Johnson and you’ve finished cleaning your rifle.
Mitch had better be moving on.