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Archive for the category “Bloody Awful Poetry”

Baby Face Chinaski

baby fade chinaski

I don’t have time for your shit,

you post-pubescent misanthrope. 

Once upon a time,

when your ironic alter-ego roamed the streets,

and haunted the bars of dirty L.A.

like a piss-stained ghost,

you were yet a regret in your

bitch of a mother’s misbegotten womb. 

Although I don’t think I blame her

for how you turned out,

given how you beg for the teat

in every Facebook post of yours

I have ever read. 

Maybe I’ll listen to you

when you can grow a mustache

thicker than a row of pubes. 

Until then,

I will simply shake my head,

and comment less and less,

because the only two things you are listening to

in these last days of your misspent youth

are your own mewling laments of growing up too fast,

and the hollow sympathies of girls your own age,

who would sooner court the clap

than give you what you think will make it all better

for just one night,

before the sun rises in your sunken child-eyes,

and you post online once more.         

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

To Walk Down a Dead-End Street

dead end

As an introvert with comically low

self-esteem,

I have made some truly awful

choices in my life.

But writing isn’t one of them. 

It’s true that a life of

settling for less along the path of least resistance

has given me

a point of view most successful creative folk never see,

and I can write from that view

as easily as breathe. 

But there is still

something missing,

and I don’t mean something missing from my

smalltime life. 

I mean something missing from my

genetic code

that enables others to whisper a resolute “fuck it”,

and move onto the

places where few go,

and fewer survive. 

I have always been,

for less than better,

and often far worse than that,

one who only moves forward with

a wall at his back,

and this time is no different. 

But it is

forward I must go,

because the only right direction to walk

down a dead-end street

is out.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

Teach Me

teach me png

Teach me to laugh,

and you’ll teach me to cry. 

Teach me to think,

and you’ll teach me to die. 

Hold it against me,

and you’ll teach me to lie. 

Forgive me for all,

and I’ll only ask why.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

Orphans

orphanage

I followed my feelings,

and got lost. 

I learned late.  

That shit only works in movies. 

In truth,

there are no heroes,

or prisoners.

No princesses,

or monsters.

Except those you imagine. 

But there is one part of the story that’s true.

We are all orphans,

left to raise ourselves

in the shadows we create. 

I want to be alone in the sun.

To be warm,

where nothing blocks the light.

Understood by all,

because all is only me. 

And if then lost,

the only absence I will know

is of the noise I left behind.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

Absolution

graveyard png

She said…

Baby,

I wanna make you feel all better.

Be absolution for the blame.

 

I said…

I appreciate that,

lover.

But I no longer play the game. 

I won’t give myself that freely now,

or ever be the same. 

I don’t let my guard down,

because you haven’t earned my pain. 

And there is no absolution

for the blame.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

Not the Same

Never was

is not the same as

never will be. 

But never was,

and never was to be,

are.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

Echoes

I Raised a Generation

road png

This is my end.  

I raised a generation,

and now look back upon it. 

I raised a generation,

and the next in line to come;

beautiful,

and free from my spotted past. 

And in seeing,

think only that it is to this generation,

and the next,

that I am tied forever. 

One decision,

made so long ago,

that its beginning seems eternal. 

By one decision,

I am now grounded to this earth,

to this very spot on which I stand,

for the rest of my obligation of days. 

I will go nowhere. 

I will not find pleasure,

as a reward for years spent in hopeless,

loving duty,

but in dedication to my craft,

and to my legacy,

this generation,

and the next in line to come. 

This is my end. 

I raised a generation,

and if I am lucky,

one day,

I will know my place,

beneath this ground on which I stand.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

The Theory of Tears

tears

Tears don’t scare me. 

I know people hate them,

in themselves and in others,

depending on just how manipulated

tears make them feel. 

Manipulated,

not by the tears,

but for the reasons they flow. 

There is a theory of tears,

known only by a few. 

Not by the ones who cry,

but by the ones who hold it in. 

They have learned

all the reasons for them,

and choose not to give them away. 

Unmanipulated,

and unmanipulating. 

They hold onto the tears

as tightly as they do the theory. 

Tears don’t scare me,

they say,

as long as I don’t have to see them.

At least that’s what their theory says. 

But the truth about

the theory of tears is this;

that tears are only scary

on the inside.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

These People

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

I watch a TV show

or a movie,

and I see friends. 

Human beings

who have friends,

friends who have

human beings

who are their friends. 

And I ask myself,

“How did these people

find each other?”

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

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