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You’re telling me I’m not worth it
That I’m not good enough
You put me in storage
And check me out when needed

I’m not going to fight it
Or turn into someone I’m not
I give you who I truly am
And fall short of your wants

I will not change or dumb down
Nor will I alter appearance for anyone
I know who I am
And I will never be perfect

I spill more respect than I gather
I would take a bullet for my worst enemy
When others are miserable so am I

Call my extreme empathy a character flaw

I was different once
When I knew nothing of the world
Driven by innocence
My creativity was plain

I had a few moments
Years passed and I learned
My creativity is now what saves me
And it is dark and confusing but real

Plain is not an option my brain has
You’re not living if the truth isn’t near
I will never get why fronts drown individuality
I decided long ago not to play that game

So you place me on that shelf
And without interruption
I am your only option
Every time you’d take anything else

It’s not a bad thing
I know where I belong
It just hurts to have the reminder
When you flaunt my worth to the world

I have experienced enough
To know answers aren’t always there
I could blame it on my empathy
But then again
I know now it’s not all on me

I will turn around and walk
Sometime in the future
I just have to save some energy
And learn to not give it all away

Birds

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Birds

The only birds that don’t scare me. (Okay, well maybe not chickens either.)

A Shade of Beauty

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I discovered Beauty in a different shade
One that had never before seemed to attract my attention
She, Beauty, is brown and beautiful and
Unashamed of her thick thighs,
Grateful of her genes.
And her dark eyes are open for an adventure to her core, her center.
Full lips that are laced with venom and seduction
Beauty has full and textured hair that’s about unmanageable as her attitude,
But with a heart as sweet as
A piece of chocolate surprise draped in a gold wrapper.

Beauty.

disco balls and strange nights.

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and she’s lying there, naked, with her perfect ass, high as a kite for the first time and not sure how to handle it, and you didn’t fuck this time because five minutes after the clothes came off she was rambling on about all the layers all the layers all the layers, and you knew exactly what she meant because you remembered the first time you were high, so you don’t stress the whole “blue-balling-the-shit-out-of-a-homie-ain’t-cool” thing, and you wonder how you look to her now that she’s flying in a new dimension and you’re silhouetted by 1 AM’s lava lamp light, naked at your writing desk, foot against the wall, comfortable in your own skin, your own nakedness, writing this poem or whatever the fuck it is, and you wonder if she can possibly see this room, this moment, this night, this life as perfectly strange and sad as you do, and you wonder if she’ll sober up in a little while and give you that blowjob she promised with her eyes an hour ago, before the spinning took over and the frame-less mattress sailed away on clouds of paranoia and wonder.

Willie Watt.
1.30.15

dead bird

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what’s it like to be
a dead thing?

feathers scattered
on the pavement

grounded

gifted back
to the earth

what’s it like to
be stuck?

splattered
and alone

while all other
birds take flight

and don’t
flinch at the
sight of your
immobility

what’s it like
to be motionless?

to leave the world
exactly as it was

before you

In My Arms By Evening

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My hands are vacant of beneficial qualities
and none shall match the failure
I am inevitably doomed to hold.
I have the titles that prove, beyond all reason,
I am the executor of this ruined testament,
and because of this, I shall be cast
into a room of faceless mannequins
by those who once loved me,
so I might discover the nothingness
I later meant to them.

Unlike so many, there is no paramour
awaiting me at a future junction,
and the empty highway
I call my existence shall remain
closed off to all.

If only I wasn’t an agnostic,
there would always be a higher power
I could accuse of vandalizing my many dreams.
Instead, I ought to really blame myself
for no other party is responsible,
and only I can honorably accept
the failure that is my life till now.

This egotistical trash I pretend
is writing deserves to be on trial,
for it is a mandated law,
enforced by the hands of the writer’s guild,
that only pieces dusted down
and beautiful, deserve the limelight.

Perhaps I don’t deserve this oxygen,
or the vacancy these words are set upon?
Moreover, perhaps I am unworthy
of the right to waste a reader’s time
with pointless words depicting a tireless struggle,
but I truly must admit,
if a woman were to say you’re the one
I’ve been waiting for, it wouldn’t matter
if she were standing in front of me,
or on the other side of a volcano;
I would do whatever it took to make certain
she were in my arms by evening.

Derek Childs, 29th January

I watch the Chinese dating show If You Are the One. Two nights ago there was a gentleman who, after a young woman admitted he was the man she’d been waiting for, decided against leaving with her, insisting there were other male suitors she ought to choose. Although perhaps this sentiment is honorable, I also felt it was really foolish, for the goal of the experience is to (hopefully) acquire a date, rather than leave alone because there are other men who are potentially more deserving of an opportunity. Thus because of that, I was inspired to make this poem which, come to think of it, kind of lacks any form of rational sense. Sorry ’bout that guys. Thanks for reading!  :D

Wet Dreams and Poetry

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Poetry is like pink bubble gum stuck on downtown sidewalks,

smoggy gloomed skies of dirty browns, greys, overcast grime in clouds,

a ripped hymen, pierced bloody red with cherry JELL-O Pudding goo,

tickled armpits, frenzied childish laughter, giggles cuddled in guts,

a lover’s hairy animal-like arms, chest, back, warm wax ripping skin bare.

Poetry is like a ménage a trois, two pairs of lips available to suck you ripe,

masturbation, gentle moans and mmmmm’s drowned out by splattering rain,

a backache massaged by calm hands, rubbing shoulders to ass, ass to spine,

two full rounded breasts filled with blood and milk, heart and body.

Poetry is like a balding man, receding hairlines like sand and waves, grainy

shells shattered against California shorelines, man hungry sharks, woman

hungry men exposing themselves to children in playgrounds and school yards,

small cocks baked in scorching simmering sunshine burning flesh to brown.

Poetry is like used toilet paper glued-stuck beneath high-heeled shoes, dirty

public restrooms wet from piss stained yellow tile, snot plastered green against

cold hard floors, tears poured out onto toilet seat covers and sanitary napkins,

tampons drenched heavily by poems that encourage wet dreams.

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