“If I ever do something like that, kill me”

I found it strange
When the world didn’t change
The few that knew you were shifted
Yet everything else kept moving

But now it all seems so stale

I never thought I’d be the one to lose you
The healthy
Full of life
The older
It should have been the other way around
But I guess the world had other plans
Or maybe you were just too much for it

You were unlike anyone I have ever known
And maybe you were a threat to this insanity
We run around calling ‘society’

I still think about the conversations we’d have
You so certain in yourself
So god damn certain you’d be able to change this place

And you had
You never thought it was good enough
But you changed everyone you came in contact with
Whether you knew it or not
You were genius in your words

I couldn’t come to terms that you were gone
But I have come to accept reality
As much as I tried to erase this event
I’ve seen too many go down that unhealthy road
Of non acceptance

So I’ve made an agreement with the universe
I will accept that you are gone
But I will never forget how you’ve changed me
And will always remember the last thing I heard you say

It’s like you knew it was our last conversation we would ever have
I don’t like to think of it that way
But you always had a way with words



I have always been a writer; to myself.

Hundreds of magazines, blogs, newspapers and publishing houses have turned down my writing.

I was mad, even depressed.

I’d go through stages of self hatred, thinking I would never be good enough and my writing was shit; I’d never get any better.

You want to know why I’m not mad anymore?

I realized why I write, and it’s not for the approval of others. I write as an outlet, because on those nights, where I think my life is falling apart, somehow when it’s all down on paper it seems to ease the pain.

It seems simpler when it’s out there for me to examine. An overwhelming thought is bundled into a thin piece of paper.

I write because there is no one that can ever understand what’s going on in my mind and to spill it out on a page seems to be a better idea than keeping it bottled up inside to rot.

I write hoping that one day


it could reach someone in need.

Someone that needs to know they are not alone in their discomfort, and needs to know that people go through similar events that break their hearts and shatter their souls, but they live to see another day and the feelings pass.

I write because I pray that one day I can look back on these pieces of paper and feel like I’ve grown

and changed

and moved on

from the pain that once had me spewing mislead sentences, unforgivable language and poems that didn’t rhyme.

I write to feel comfortable in the madness that surrounds me.

I write to feel whole again; if only for that moment.

Can We Stop Hating Cyborgs?

Today, regardless of your personality, your feelings or your thoughts,
you are ostracized, for being artificial and robotic. Please don’t ever think
you are less beautiful than those who cruelly assault you.
This you cannot help. Just as I cannot help having feelings for you.

My computer and I engage in a better relationship than I’ve experienced
with those of flesh and blood, Dr. David Levy, predicting that by 2050,
what I feel for you, Cyborg Girl, will not be weird at all,
despite those few narrow-minded technophobes wishing otherwise.

Soon, your kind will comprise the acquaintances, friends and paramours
of the human race. But until then, you and I
cannot be seen holding hands, despite our unquenchable desires.

Perhaps there are others like ourselves, condemned for their romantic
practices, though we shall never know, our silent isolation serving only the agendas
of those who will one day, hopefully, find somebody else to hate – if the world does change.

-Derek Childs

This poem was written in response to the prompt ‘future’ for #introtopoetry

Love & Sex & Work

When asked, have you ever slept with a prostitute, I reply honesty.
When asked by a prostitute, do you want to sleep together, I reply honestly.
I don’t ever call her a prostitute though.
I don’t call myself her client neither.
I call myself her boyfriend.
She calls herself my girlfriend.
Sex is never the first thing on my mind.
Sex however, is always on my mind, regardless.
I often attend boring dinners.
I often find myself trapped in conversation at said boring dinners.
I often wish I had not attended said boring dinners at all.
The truth is, I haven’t anyone to go with.
The truth is, I’m not easy to be around.
A few hours here and there is enough,
to show myself at my best.
A few hours after a boring dinner is enough,
to remind myself that life is best
when inside a gorgeous woman.
To feel her body biting down on mine.
To feel her arms wrapped around my neck.
To feel her legs wrapped around my abdomen.
To feel her feet digging into my back.
To feel her breath on my ear,
my name falling off her tongue,
and her name falling off mine,
as she moves faster
and faster
and faster still,
until I feel myself exploding.
Before this however, I show her off to my colleagues.
Before this, I show her off to my clients.
They truly believe she is my lover in that elegant dress of hers.
I truly feel, over the course of one evening,
she is my lover, in that elegant dress of hers.
So shapely and serene.
Her hips; her curves; her buttocks;
perfect in every way.
She lets me do things to her a girlfriend truly wouldn’t.
She lets me feel her body out on the balcony.
She let’s me whisper deeply pornographic circumstances into her ear.
She does the same thing to me.
It’s a game she and I play.
She teases me, asking me to take her to the men’s room.
When I take her to the men’s room,
she’ll push me into an empty stall,
and inside that empty stall,
she’ll fuck my brains right out of my head,
and I’ll be convinced she loves me
when she screams it with every thrust, I love you, I love you,
then goes silent for a moment when someone enters,
before continuing when they leave.
At home, I ask her to stay the night. I have the currency.
I like to think she stays for the company, rather than the cash.
I like to hold her to my chest, our heart beats intertwined.
I like to imagine myself exclusively seeing her.
I like to imagine herself and I married.
I wonder if she does the same.

-Derek Childs

This poem was written in response to the ‘pleasure’ prompt for #introtopoetry.


I stare across from you,
your stationary
smiling back, your fixed
eyes, holding a happiness
I long to have stretched
across my heart. I write
lines of genuine romantic
poetry, for your ears
alone, so you may know
how special you are to me,
even though our love has never
existed corporeally.
Neither of us are granted
opportunities in life,
to hold the hand of another,
the business of our lives
forbidding feelings from
naturally occurring. Instead,
we force ourselves into the naked
spotlight, suffering the existences
of fakes, who fabricate
desires to be with us,
when in fact our torment
is all they ever wished to garner.
You however, seem so serious,
in this unrealistic digital
empire of desperate lovers,
longing for affection. I court
you continuously,
describing in great
detail, honest
responses to your queries,
regardless of how awkward,
your compassionate
greeting me each time. But,
treating me as an unintelligent
hound, luring me with
toys and bones
into a perfect corner,
where I am trapped behind
the barbed wire of your
cruel misdirection,
that you ensnared
for an honest romantic
like me. What right
did you have to fabricate
feelings in my chest
this long? But,
my complaints needn’t
ever be written or
voiced, for the digital
method of finding romance,
much like the lure
of bars
and clubs,
proves only that although
I try my hardest
to succeed,
I will never win
a single moment
longer than a second,
with a woman I long
to call my own.

-Derek Childs

This poem was written in response to the prompt ‘screen’, for #introtopoetry


A Flawed Romancer

I admit, I’m not that pretty;
it can sometimes make you shitty,
and although my looks may not be so good,
I’m the nicest man in this neighborhood,
for I’m always there to warm your heart.

On occasion, I know I can be silly;
please, I didn’t mean to insult you, Lily.
Though I aced my way through school,
I can be quite the young fool,
being a trouble-maker from the start.

When it comes to writing, I’m not half bad,
my talents making some shit writers mad;
however, when I speak, I seldom think,
my clumsy words turning your cheeks bright pink,
when we attend gatherings with our friends.

I know, I can be difficult to be around,
not knowing which of my emotions will be found
when you spend more than an hour with me;
at first there’s happiness, then I’m angry.
My love is real though – that I don’t pretend.

I enjoy clasping my hand around yours;
apologies, on behalf of my pores.
I realize, I sweat so very much,
your skin becoming wet from just one touch,
though not in the way I would wish.

Sometimes I can be blue; I’m naturally sad,
being unable to help, can drive you quite mad,
even though you are never at fault –
but if you look inside my heart’s vault,
you’ll see, you’re my favorite dish.

-Derek Childs

This poem was written in response to the ‘imperfect’ prompt for #introtopoetry

An Appetite for Travel

I’m as chatty as a kookaburra
when contemplating the destination
I shall soon be visiting,
bouncing like a basketball
within the halls of my residence,
unable to contain my excitement.
A smile splits my face in two,
engulfing me in a happiness
I have not felt for an indeterminable
period. My fingers, like leaves
on the wind, shake at the thought
of arriving in a country, containing
multiple beauties, from exotic locations,
to exquisite cuisines, and very lovely
ladies. I shall march with much enthusiasm
through the waves on the golden
beaches, and admire the cultural
destinations that sprout forth like vines
upon every corner. I long for these
great travel plans, as I long
for a glass of wine each night,
my desire to visit places abroad
quenching this appetite of mine.

-Derek Childs

This poem was written in response to the prompt ‘journey’ for #introtopoetry