By: John Maurer
A Bit Abysmal
Everest is short to eagles
Flowers are tall to worms
Masses of arachnids running down my throat
To make up for my lack of sleep
For the sake of my health
I don’t do a god damn thing
Trickling a little cerebral fluid
onto your ‘rental’ oriental rug
If I’m not supposed to do drugs
Why do I have a drug cabinet?
What did you expect me to fill it with
Memories weigh too much, they would break the shelves
Regret would fall through the foundation then the core of the earth
The Cup Runneth Over
Covered in scabs and band aids
No one asks to help you if no one else is around to see them ask
No one does anything for anyone, most of all, themselves
I keep telling myself to keep my hands clean
But poisons in prescription bottles call out to me
They say don’t you remember how I felt
How I felt like nothing at all
How much easier it is for a boat to float when it’s hollow
I am telling my story like it will be over soon
How am I to know, I am not writing that
Surprise is the result of a lack of expectations
Disappointment is the result of having too many
Screaming until my voice erodes
and my lungs are sopping on the hot summer road
Saying everything you told me I couldn’t
I can’t keep a secret for you like I can’t keep a bomb strapped to my chest for you
You are nowhere in the world, I am Atlas holding it up just to examine it further
It does look like me, it does look fucked up
Drunk and spinning and spilling itself out anywhere it can
And wherever it can, it will
Rapid Bicycling
Chupacabra in the chimney, practicing sewing cactuses
Not understanding the needles point until he did needle point
The longer you are unspeakable, the louder your voice will echo back
Like you must be that deep into the cave; you must get that far to read
the sonic hieroglyphics; still you misheard me, I didn’t say it’s hell or heaven
I said it’s hell before heaven
The house I was born in was on a street configured in a figure eight,
two roads diverged in the woods, and no matter which I traveled
it made no difference, it left me where I started
Bio: John Maurer
John Maurer is a 26-year-old writer from Pittsburgh who writes fiction, poetry, and everything in-between, but his work always strives to portray that what is true is beautiful.
He has been previously published on more than sixty sites including:
- Claudius Speaks
- The Bitchin’ Kitsch
- The American Journal of Poetry
- Thought Catalog
- TwentyTwoTwentyEight
Follow John and Visit his Website
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