“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.

Poison Street

I’ve tried
And now I’m tired
I tried to be support
And push us to better ourselves
Moving away from the things
That make us terrible people

I tried to do this with you
But two days and you were gone
Running back up to these poisons
And poisonous people
That you once said you hated

I wanted to start this with you
We were freshening our souls
And beginning something wonderful
Now I’m starting to believe you like the dark
The poison; The hate

You want the reckless and the terrible
The beaten and the stupid
I can feel it in my heart
You don’t want to tear away from it

You say you want this new life together
As you run as far away from it as possible

I want to help you and support you
In reaching these goals that have been set
For years this has been coming
But suddenly now it’s here
And you are nowhere to be seen

I feel betrayed and hurt
Because I trust you
Then I leave for a moment
And suddenly you’re back
To those old ways
Never staying sober
Long enough to care
Or remember our relationship
Or anything you want in this life

I’ve tried
And now I’m tired
Of worrying and feeling alone
Living this life we wanted
But now it’s just me here
While you run wild
In the streets you swore
We left behind

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

Undressed Destinations

You, milady, are the destination
I crave.

Unlike other women
I have met, and loved, albeit
so briefly, in bathroom stalls
and hotel rooms, you are not
comprised of sandcastles,
eaten away by time.

You are no hourglass either, yet
you redefine the meaning
of gorgeousness for me. Your
skin, pulled taught across
a body older than mine,
still retains its silky texture,
whenever my hands are permitted
to touch.

You were always brown,
your tan having browned
you further, until you resemble
a piece of toast, so edible, so

A tight black dress ends
just below your waist.

You sit on the edge
of the bed, legs
crossed, the perfect outline
of where your legs meet your
back, being utterly irresistible.

Your hair sounds just like
the ocean, as it rolls across
your frame, once you eject those
hearty strands out from the red

Your eyes are as equally dark,
yet mirror the light
of the room, your nose, a small,
smooth triangle; your lips,
kissable and moist. I could lose
my mouth inside those lips
of yours.

Your arms are long,
much like your legs, void
of pocks and blemishes.

I take you in, completely, like
oxygen. Your figure is so
succulent in the dim light.

Why travel anywhere, when I
can be here with you?

Your hands, so soft,
yet worked over by
your professional duties,
gently rip the shirt I wear
from my shoulders, and stroke
the hairs that cover my chest
like a duvet.

You unbuckle my trousers.

My hands move your skirt,
revealing your lack
of undergarments. Your fleshy
backside, rounded and curvaceous,
feels firm within my grasp,
as you undo that dress of yours,
like skinning a banana, revealing
the mountain range you have
hidden there, your bosom
gently bouncing agaisnt your skin.

Soon, they will be bouncing
agaisnt my face, and cupped
by these lips of mine,
as we admire each others
nudity, before becoming joined
at the waist, a collection of tangled
spider limbs wrapped around
each shapely figure, for the
remainder of the evening.

-Derek Childs

This poem was written in response to the prompt ‘landscape’ 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.