Jealous Emily

Emily Claire Baudelaire
Sat with her little nose in the air.
And row after row,
She’d turn up her nose
At each and every fellow’s...
…girl.

Oh, my-
Oh, my, my-
Oh, my jealous Emily!
Oh, my!
Can’t you see?
That’s you’re the one
For me?
Oh, oh, oh!
You’re the one for me!

Every morning at nine on the dot,
Emily went to the coffee shop.
And there she sat,
Her hands in her lap
Thinking, “How do I be a girl…
…Like that?”

Oh, my-
Oh, my, my-
Oh, my jealous Emily!
Oh, my!
Can’t you see?
That’s you’re the one
For me?
Oh, oh, oh!
You’re the one for me!

Her perfect skin,
Her eyes full of grace.
A porcelain doll
All clothed in lace
And guilty are those,
Who dare to
Leave her in wait,
She’s the kind of girl
Who seems to never think..
Straight.

Emily Claire Baudelaire
Wished she could be as debonair
As the boys who she fucked,
She had the worst of luck.
And she still never seemed to think of…
Me!

Oh, my-
Oh, my, my-
Oh, my precious Emily!
Oh, my!
Can’t you see?
That’s you’re selling
For free?
Oh, oh, oh!
My jealous Emily!

so in my absence..

i wrote a bunch of sassy poems.
and embraced my inner bitch.
enjoy.

full, red set.

her nails click-clack-clicked
at the typewriter she called home.
like red arrows, they pierced
each
black
key
with a definitive strike,
her poison being the words that bloomed.

long ago she had given up the feel
of ink hitting a crisp sheet of paper,
planting seeds and watching their vines
grow and wind with her cursive swirls.

it was as if over the course
of a lifetime,
she had learned to fear the connection
to the page;
learned to deny her muse, for the feeling
of frenzied blue lines pouring from her hand,
racing her brain,
left her exhausted and despondent.

and that reality occurred so often that
one morning she awoke,
and realized that she would be better off
click-clack-clicking away for a man,
typing his words, making him happy,
for she didn’t know what happiness was anymore.

home.

you’re home.
i look out the window,
and yes, you’re home.
a day earlier than expected.
will you ever speak to me again?
i think not,
you’ll move away in a day
or two
and i will be left to
fill this burning hole
that i wish i could
throw you in.

desperate.

we’ve been broken up
for about four months now.
so inviting you over was probably
a little unorthodox.
but in hindsight,
i’ve never made you moan like that before.

a bunch of shitty poems.

i’m pretty sure that all i’ll ever write anymore
are a bunch of shitty poems;
clever, bitchy one-liners.
because i’m tired of hating myself,
trying to create beauty.

heartless.

maybe you were so hesitant about
giving me my locket back
because it felt nice to have a heart
for once.

the cake theory- sudden thought.

i promise i’ll retire this fucking poem,
but who the fuck gets a cake for the purpose of
just having a cake?
and what kind of fatass eats a whole cake?

feel something now?

once again, we’re in your truck.
and i’m telling you that feeling each other
isn’t really feeling.
except you don’t care anymore.
and if that’s how you want it, fine.
so we kiss, and touch, and pretend
we’re grownups and wish we were actually
feeling something.
and then you finish and i ask you
if you’re feeling something now.

the cake theory- revised.

i guess what i meant is that
you can have your cake and eat it too,
but you can’t complain when it
bites you in the ass
(and you gain a few pounds)
just like you knew it would from the start.

consider yourself warned.

it’s great your dog’s a rescue,
and that you’re a pacifist.
but saying you want world peace
doesn’t mean i’ll show you my tits.

the cake theory.

the way i see it,
you can have your cake and eat it too,
only so long as you take the whole cake
instead of just one slice, asshole.

facebook sends its love.

i think i would let you break my heart again.
rip it out and spit on it again.
just because i don’t care enough to
find something better.

listen to me.

you know what?

i don't know who you are.
and i don't think i want to.

so why don't you chew on that for a while?

nobody puts katie in a corner.

i can't whittle you down
into a list of pros and cons,
of yes and no,
of twilights and dawns.

it's not a simple matter
of what to do,
rather, it's the question
known as "who are you?"

i am a liar, liar, pants on fire,
liar, pants on the floor.
and you are a taker and lover and feeder.
so which one of us is the whore?

and are you just another rake
in the shape of dorian gray?
or are you a brightbright little liar
with brightbright eyes of the day?

i am a liar, liar, pants on fire,
liar, pants on the floor.
and you are a taker and lover and feeder.
so which one of us is the whore?

if you get to burn down your nicotine,
the sure as hell i will too.
and pack by pack i'll stab your back,
just to follow that golden rule.

i'll bury with you this letter.
it says: i thought you were perfect,
but you weren't worth it.
so take back the bedrooms,
the fighting, the backseats,
the "i know forever we'll be."

i am a liar, liar, pants on fire,
liar, pants on the floor.
and you are a taker and lover and feeder.
so which one of us is the whore?

and in california,
you'll meet that old lover.
you'll want her and need her
and you'll try to please her

yet when the air begins
to be heavy again,
you will move onto some
other flower bed.

i am a liar, liar, pants on fire,
liar, pants on the floor.
and you are a taker and lover and feeder.
and now i'm not really sure.

your god.

your "god" resides in shopping malls at christmastime.
giving out candy canes and collecting money,
(a portion of) which goes to a charity, and telling
the children to be good for Santa.
afterwards passing by a freezing man burning a book to stay warm.
thank jesus it wasn't the bible
and give it no other thought.

your "god" sits within his church or temple,
whichever is "the one,"
next to the girls who sit through an afternoon mass,
waiting for the alter boys to kiss them and sneak them
"the blood of christ."
with men who dominate their wives while their many children watch,
and the oldest heats up pasta,
so that her mother may ice her eye with their sunday steak.

your "god" lives within capitalism
and christian barbeques
and secret abortions for trophy wives
in the back of a shed where people go to take
(hits of marajuana)
away another
little
problem.

bowing to your "god"?
no, thank you.
i will instead battle the
unknown.
and leave you with
your pretty white smiles,
all pearly white lies.

"swollen-foot"

the oracle told me, told me
that you were going to fuck your mother.
you mother lover, lover, lover, love.
the oh-rih-gin-al.
mother lover.

boys, crazy boys, boys.
boys fighting with sticks,
boys fighting with swords,
boys fighting; silly boys,
boys fighting; dead.

the oracle confided in me
that you were going to walk like a pidgeon.
you fucking cripple, cripple, cripple, oh.
ankles, oh, oh.

boys, crazy boys, boys.
boys fighting with sticks,
boys fighting with swords,
boys fighting; silly boys,
boys fighting; dead.

the oracle confessed to me
that it knew about your fucked little family.
dys-func-tion-ohl!-ohl!-ohl!-oh!
dysfunction-ah-ah-oh-luh.

boys, crazy boys, boys.
boys fighting with sticks,
boys fighting with swords,
boys fighting; silly boys,
boys fighting; dead.

the oracle, the oracle, the oracle-oh-oh.
what a genius.
blind as a white man.
the oracle.

boys, crazy boys, boys.
boys fighting with sticks,
boys fighting with swords,
boys fighting; silly boys,
boys fighting; dead.

the oracle told me, told me.
that you were going to love your mother.
you mother fucker, fucker, fucker, fuck.
you son,
you son of a gun.