-------------------------------------------------------
turn down the lights
these are the nights
i should drink myself
to death
that's the problem with
starting out drinking
at a young age
it takes so damn much
anymore to even get
close to the end
it ain't worth it
play some music
turn down the lights
remember the last one
that ever wanted to
kiss you
if she only had a way
to get out of that shitty
marriage
who knows
soon the scotch will
switch to gin
that is what the inner
child likes to call
torture
iron sharpens iron
the shotgun in the
corner has dust on it
i suppose that says
more than even i
believe it does
----------------------------------------------------------
all hope is lost
there is a darkness around me
some days
a pain that lingers in the background
like an awkward kid at the prom
but as that pain lingers
especially as i have grown
older
every fucking twist and turn
the poems start to be written
in blood
all hope is lost in a fucking
sewer miles away
no one ever loved me and
i am painfully aware of it
on most days, i don't even
bother to fight off the demons
anymore
what's the point
death has been on my mind
for over forty fucking years
now
longer than some of my friends
ever lived
will it be a mirror or a spoon
laughing at the moon or loading
the bullets into a homemade gun
i still hide the knives in the bushes
just for old times' sake
last time anyone actually cared
---------------------------------------------------------
not your blood
trembling hands
covered in blood
not your blood
love rushes in
when reality
fades away
a final breath
amid chaos
and mayhem
you always knew
he wanted death
to be one hell of
a story to tell
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eyes that would haunt a ghost
broken neon scattered
across the sky in another
one of my broken dreams
she always has brown hair
brown skin, a great ass
and eyes that would haunt
a ghost
somehow, she is in love
with me, an overweight
poet with a wicked tongue
if you know what i mean
hand in hand in the rain
laughing at nothing at all
her kisses are like a lovers
lament
often, she will try to kill
me in these dreams
on a rare night, we make
love in a parking lot
outside of some shitty
bar
i had a friend ask me
if i ever was in love
i told her your guess
is as good as mine
-------------------------------------------------------
welcome to love with a poet
she tasted like cherry cream soda
curves in all the right places
how much is this going to cost me
well, eventually your life
she showed her hand, hoping
for a ring
i was fresh out of ideas and excuses
to say no
i put a rubber band on her ring finger
she laughed
i said welcome to love with a poet
we might have lasted another month
or so
eventually, the laughs were glasses
being thrown against walls
fists into bricks
you know
the typical white trash utopia break
up shit on a saturday night in the sticks
i still think of her
i still have the scars
J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is slowly dying in the suburbs, realizing that the story only gets sadder from here. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Mad Swirl, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Rye Whiskey Review and Disturb the Universe Magazine. His most recent chapbook, Altered States of The Unflinching Souls, with Casey Renee Kiser, was published in August. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
