Trying your genuine hand at love is like applying for a credit card, whether it’s for a department store, through a bank, a credit union, whatever.
I’ll get an occasional offer from the shady ones, high interest rates with terms and conditions that suck a big hairy scrote. So I keep away.
…But then I see one, and it’s just incredible. I want to apply, and I do. I’m afraid, and nervous, and I feel I wont be approved, because I haven’t been, and rejection hurts, the games hurt, and if they would have just been honest it would have hurt less, and I could have pushed on easier, but… I apply anyway, because this one seems worth it.
I like her humor, this credit card.
I like her smile, and I hope I’m approved this time.
I hope I win, this time.
And with frank politeness do I receive a quaint smile
and a kind way of saying no, you are not approved
for what you see here.
Your credit is not good enough for what you see here.
You and your love are not good enough for this
remarkable credit card.
I wouldn’t have applied myself and try if
I hadn’t been shown the attention lately,
if I hadn’t been told by different ladies how handsome I was.
But I did apply,
and I was denied,
and all I wonder is why,
and if I will ever meet the requirements to be something amazing
to someone so seemingly amazing.
love, like credit approval.
Dyed my hawk turquoise.
Why are people still liking this:’)
Because you’re very pretty.
This strikes a chord in me.
Some people I’ve known have made fun of me for only having slept with one woman. It’s not a thing of my faith, not at all. Whether or not my thoughts are on par with the artists or not, this picture makes me visualize a woman who felt beautiful, opened herself up to someone physically and emotionally only to be crushed, and feel wilted and so much less than beautiful.
Maybe I’m not as cool or sexy or whatever the hell a guy is who’s had a hand full of women sleep with him, but what makes me feel good is that I haven’t done to a woman what this picture describes, to me anyway.
You make me warm,
you take away my fear.
You make me happy,
you take away doubt.
You make me say things
I wouldn’t normally say.
Cause I’m too honest,
too good of a person not to
smile when I’m being belittled.
Too good of a person not to take into account
how she feels before I tell her how I feel,
before I say I’d love to feel her lips against my own.
You make drastic, everything.
lady, sweet lady.
Aint gotta smoke to be glamorous,
but I do fancy the ones that do,
and I do yes,
I do in fact fancy you.
And how you get away with
spreading filth from your fingertips
onto my shirt sleeves.
No I don’t mind at all,
just keep wearing that grin,
keep playing those songs with the harsh lyrics,
keep giving me those dirty looks followed by the little fake laugh
because you know I can’t stand to work a shift without it.
Lady, sweet lady.
Aint gotta smoke to be glamorous,
but I like the ones who do,
yeah I like the girls who hurt me too.
Be it your pleasure,
Beat my heart black and blue.
This motherfucker is going to go see Mastodon, Gojira, and Kvelertak in October. What makes that better? oh you know, the babe I bought the second ticket for said she’d go with me ;) I’m so happy I feel like painting my nails.
butterflies man, butterflies…
I will not write another personal affectionate poem, until I am actually in a relationship.
I thought I took a neat picture. I may have uploaded this previously.
I still hate metalcore
I get a little sad.
I think about men who are more attractive.
I think about nice things,
and how I wish I could see myself as the great person people tell me I am.
I look at the nice things that assholes have.
I look at the pretty girls who love those assholes who don’t give two shits
I admire those beautiful couple who really do love each other though.
I look at how I have only worked,
have had no schooling, and am tired,
have had multiple surgeries,
am unfit for military duty,
drive an unattractive car,
and might as well be a virgin, because it’s just been so long,
and my “friends” make fun of me for that.
But then I remember,
that I totally am a good person,
that I totally care,
and that EVERYONE SHITS.
SHIT fucking smells.
SHIT is nasty, smells, and everyone’s asshole shits.
No matter how much money someone has,
no matter how sexy their abs are,
no matter what someone drives,
they all still SHIT,
and SHITTING is fucking gross and smells.
Fuck yes do I accept humans for SHITTING
because I SHIT too.
But who can deny the fact that laying a toe curling
healthy deuce is fucking disgusting?
I think about this and feel better,
and know I am worth something to someone.
…I don’t really think about that.
a band I love.
I love the Smiths.
Their music makes me want to throw myself up.
The being that I would throw up,
that being being the new me,
thrown up out from the throat that belonged
to the one person previously me,
would wear a trench coat yes.
Sunglasses as well.
Yet would be cooler than Rick Astley.
Fuck that shit.
The Smiths though, yes,
ugh does Morrisey stay singing in the cracked tomb
I call my heart.
Do do do do
Shut you’re mouth,
how can you say,
I’m too young to love The Smith’s and
because I am human,
and I need to be satisfied,
just like every fucking other human on this sack of shit ball
of dirt and stone and water and assholes and discrepancies.
I figure I wouldn’t like Morrisey in person however.
I’d probably want to sock him in his suckhole.
I want a cigarette,
and to kiss the woman with the dark hair and eyes.
There is no “S” in her name. Only an “$.”
who me? Oh, just thousands of albums. On cd format. A garage full of motorcycles. a kawasaki ninja 300, a kawasaki zx6r, a yamahar1, a kawasaki z1000, a harley street bob, a harley forty eight, a buell firebolt, a kawasaki versys 650, a bmw s1000rr, a ducati street fighter 848, a ktm duke 1290, and so on, and so on. Guns too. I want every gun ever. a truck. it can be old and shitty, but I want a truck. BMW m3. That’s what I’d take my date out in, if it was raining. If it was sunny, it’d be on one of the bikes. If it was snowing, it’d be in the truck. Maybe a jeep.