Humanitarian Genocide

Unrequited love

is like


Or drowning.

I don’t remember which,

But it’s one of the two.

It’s just such a pure








I’m surprised I’ve never

Injected it before.

Is there anything more powerful?

Proof that love can exist

In spite of itself.

A feeling so selfishly selfless

It’s like a gun pointed at your head,

Just let me fucking love you!

While I’m stabbing you with my heart.

But I get it now.

How is it not instinctive

Just to run when someone

is chasing you?

I don’t blame you,

But you know,

I didn’t realize I was drowning you

in a bathtub full of

love and affection.

I’ve stopped now,

And I’m trying to let you breathe.

I hope it’s not too late,

I really do get it now,

I’m trying to stop.

Please, tell me it’s not too late?

No? Well, you look hungry.

How about just 12 pomegranate seeds before you go?




Just eat these fucking pomegranate seeds you bitch!

I’m sorry again.

It’s just love.

A fat Asian man once said,

“You only lose what you cling to.”

Like the tighter you clutch a bar of soap,

The harder it is to keep in your hand.

And I clutched too tightly,

So now I’m left





In the prison shower of my mind

Trying, scrambling to pick it back up

But running out of time.

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Boxing Thunder for Dulcinea

Today, as it rained even harder

on my pitiful parade

of self-sorrow and shame,

I think of how you told me you were scared of thunder

A few hours once before it would rain,

And although you knew there was no sincere threat,

It scared you all the same.

And I return once again to that great night,

When I just held you in my arms

As you slept,

And over us the skies crept,

While I held you just as tight as I could,

ready to take up arms again.

I shout at the skies,

How dare this thunder

attempt to disrupt her slumber!

I will kill every last thunder,

or die in vain!

And I realize now,

While you were asleep,

I was just dreaming,

The rain for you was not

God’s swarming army of angels

rocketing from the skies.

The thunder for you was not a

mad, wild barking Cerberus

and the Devil jealous of our love.

Though I clutched you like some

selfless hero jumping on a grenade

to save his troupe,

that lightning was not aimed at us,

though I could have swore that it was.

And you felt safe,

Not because I was ready to take upon them all,

for you,

ever-willing to play the hero

or the fool,

but because,

just like thunder,

you knew,

I couldn’t even hurt you,

if I tried.

And just then,

I swear,

Somewhere faraway,

As I conceded defeat,

Thunder clapped.

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Rainy Summer

In the summer of our love,

Why would it rain

Like I’m being waterboarded

Every time we’d fight?

Like someone was

Painting the skyline

Of our emotional distress

To put above our heads

For everyone else to see

And suffer too.

Is it accurate how I’m imagining it?

Never once a drizzle or a shower, but

A constant mad vengeful rain,

like every droplet was a waterfall,

And God was bucket-tossing the ocean

at my ark of a Nissan

while our phones were buzzing at war.

Was He mad at you for not recognizing fate?

Or me for playing an artist’s rendition of

An insolent Adam, slapping

Away His benevolent hand.

Were those really His tears.

Or is it all in my head?

Maybe it was just a rainy summer

And besides, we did fight a lot.

So, is it all in my head?

I ask my head

And I feel more rainy

Because my head questions back,

“Well, is it in hers?”

And I’m doing okay now,

Accepting our Summer is over,

Trying to rise again in the Fall.

But it just started raining again,

And I think,

How every time it rains,

I think of you,

And how I know,

You’re not

Thinking of me.

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Muse Withdrawl

Here, roses should stand.

Rather than these barstools

That mark where we first met.

Stop writing about her.

With a steady hand,

And a sunny mind,

I shall cut the throat of Pride,

On the alter of Passion

To pray for privilege

From any black god

That might reward me

With just a second,

Of your presence.

This is getting sad, bro.

1,000 poems I’ve written

And will write

for you. But they are all like heroine,

Like you. My savior,

I am always, chasing your love

I once knew. It never comes close.

I never come close. If my words

are weak, it is only because my love

is so immense, it is to be indescribable

by any language not found in the heart.

No more poetry for a while. It’s bad for your health.

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Love Stories

Lately, I’ve been sympathizing with Hades.

The tragic hero and villain of unrequited love.

Would you please,

be the Queen of my Underworld?

I know your mother doesn’t approve,

but I didn’t choose this profession

and I know you don’t love me, so please

Just eat these pomegranate seeds,

you stupid fucking goddess.

And I’ve been imagining myself as Gatsby –

Still Great. And just another hopeless romantic,

Continuously sacrificing pride for passion and

Getting fucked in the end.

And I’ve seen us as Romeo and Juliet,

Who instead met at a bar,

But still spited their parents,

Only to fall back into the grave

Of the arms our former lovers.

All of these stories remind me of you,

But none are as tragic,

To me,

As the end of ours,

When you said simply,

“This isn’t working”

and I let it go

As simply as that.

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A Toast to My Dad

My dad would play guitar by the fire like an acid-dazed Carlos Santana,

To the awe of all of my Cub Scout leaders,

purely as a joke.

My dad would read me poetry as I fell asleep,

In such a way that Joyce would have shivered

Saying ‘This work wasn’t poetry until this moment when paired with that voice’.

Tommy’s Dad would return his ‘World’s Greatest Dad’ mug in shame,

Like an actor renouncing his Oscar in defense of his competitor.

My dad could beat up all your dads,

Fuck their wives,

And they’d be grateful.

“Thanks. She really needed that.”

My dad would teach me how to get girls,

“It’s no secret. You’re great. So just be yourself stupid. Don’t be scared.”

And to my surprise, and no one else’s, it would work.

My dad would work all day,

Then come home with no complaints,

And thank my mom for a delicious meal.

My dad would be loved by all,

Blacks, whites, homosexuals, Muslims, Christians, Jews,

And he would love them all right back.

My dad would come to all of my games and plays early without fail,

And do nothing more than smile with pride.

My dad would be my best friend

and a proper parent.

This is who my dad is

I imagine


I had ever met him


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Through the bipolarity of my emotions suggesting deep hurt and immaturity, handled immaturely

Your absence,

has left me blind and cold

like a song without a dancer.

You are like the sun,

getting so close to you

was causing me cancer.

Even if I was rich,

Without you,

I’d be poor.

You are like the moon,

where there’s no sign of intelligent life –

you vapid whore.

Beautiful and delicate,

like the child magician’s

first successful stunt.

You are like a rose.

I suspect

you have thorns in your cunt.

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