Last Week's Poems 03 — Leo Lawrence

last week’s poems 03

oh them, in the corner? they’re working on getting god momentum

old friend do what you gotta do

go get that bread, go get that head

do what you gotta do

to make some time

to make some art

go get that bread, go get that head

what ever you need to do

to help you start

these poems are for the people who have drowned in really hard things but come up from the fucking water kicking

the ones with a smile on even when it has no right being there

the ones with smiles that are earnt

met her on the west coast

should’ve taken her east

she found me on the boardwalk

selling poems

a dollar a piece

should’ve taken her

to see my graffiti on the streets

in n.y.c.

because my poems

here

they didn’t breathe

but over on the east coast

they came alive

on the walls of bars

and little dives

she only knew my poems on the west coast

man i wish i could’ve shown her the east

texts should be lit(erature)

don’t text me unless it’s poetic baby

don’t mail me unless it’s a painting that’s a little hazy

don’t send me anything

unless it’s literature that can drive me

absolutely fucking crazy

corporate slut

you stay so organized

and it gets you off

you do what the boss tells you

more than just 9-5

you sleep restless

on your company’s schedule

they wake you up

but never please you

but still you stay

and they think they know you

you say thanks for the money
put in the bank and let it go

but you got a secret little turn on

and you can’t let it show

a secret kink

only you know

sometimes when you get a minute alone

you fuck yourself by writing some poetry

and writing some scripts

that are actually amazing

that are actually it

but you can’t let em show

because you are a corporate slut

fucking on their schedule

so open another email

go to another meeting

but they’ll never know

you got a secret little kink

that you’ll never let show

but sometimes you get a minute alone

and maybe one day

you’ll quit

and you’ll let the world know

you corporate slut

i love you so

not this time

this time

im going to keep it

going for

a little

while

its time for some consistency

even if it doesn’t rhyme

all the time

i had to help my parents learn a culture i didn’t know

before i could focus on becoming my own

and every time i saw her

she got

a

little

more

beautiful

till it started

hurting

it was just a pang at first

when i saw her at a party

but i saw her at a cafe the next day

and it made my chest cave

and then i saw her out in town

another time

and it broke me down

saw her at the park

on a blanket with a book

and for some reason

that messed me up good

should’ve told her what i thought

because i saw her the next time on a patio

around dinner time

with a man

who kinda had my look

and i knew he was in for good

because every time i saw her

she got a little more beautiful

till it just hurt for good

the only love that can be bought

a man’s last 80 bucks

lost his job

lost his wife

his car broke down

and he’s stuck in town

but he’s got 80 bucks

and he wants to see

how long he can make it last

at a bar

but then he sees that everyone’s broke

and the beers are 5 bucks a pop

there are four people at the bar so he rings the bell

and next minute there’s four drinks at a bar and they’re living well

and then he buys another round

and another round

and

that’s the smart thing to do with 80 bucks

argue if you want but a good night at a bar can cure a man’s woes

and make him

a rich man

talking his sorrows

and figuring them out

with a few drunks

who love him no doubt

because the only love that can be bought

is the love for a man who just bought the bar a round of drinks

so that’s what you should do with your last 80 bucks

she told me that she loved tragedies

and so did i

she told me at the end

of us

“at least it would provide some poems”

and that was the real tragedy

the poems it provided were shit

and i realized some tragedies

just weren’t it

would have rather had her and i

living in a studio on island time

writing some rhymes

and fading into a sunset

as the credits rolled by

she told me she loved tragedies

but i wasn’t so sure anymore

maybe a happy ending just this one time

might’ve been right

you can’t come around here

with that energy

we wont even see you

we’re so locked in

you can’t come around here

with that energy

it won’t help anything

just kills people’s dreams

you can’t come around here

with that energy

we won’t even hear you

we’re so locked in

friends with everyone

close with no one

vulnerable

but only on the surface

immune system weak

like my support system

full of hopes and dreams

but nothing tangible

love life but

i’m not living much

mainly in my room

writing poems

and making plans for a trip or two

that never happen

wonder if it

would’ve been different

if you were still

around

but it probably wouldn’t

would’ve just been

me

dragging us down

but sometimes up

and i live for that

idea

that sometimes

i drag us up

got to get a good buzz on for no fucking reason sometimes

poor boy sitting there

writing his exegisis

in his dull journal

lines are so neat

his words all make sense

to his guilty soul

his own pen

damning him in

no freedom no creativity

just some words

and some stories

written by some dude

hundreds of years old

poor boy

sitting there

reading an old book

30 times through

that’s keeping him tied down

to some very old rules

how the hell are you

even meant to move

how is your pen meant to groove

poor old boy reading that old book

and finding nothing new

could be making waves with a colorful journal

and sharing your individuality with

those around you

poor old boy

that used to be me

in a coffee shop corner

hiding my sins

believe in your own world

things i’ve had to do to get closer to

and maybe become

the artist i’ve always wanted to be

the artist that i’ve got hiding inside of me:

get physically healthy
adapt to multiple new cultures
play the capitalist game
get emotionally healthy
figure out my message
learn about who i’m writing for
get consistent
get fast
stay prolific

its taken some time

but i’m almost there

i’ve almost arrived

i wish someone would’ve saved that kid

they saw him reading the old book

at all hours

digging in

he had been so happy

until they introduced

to him

the concept of sin

and along with that came

guilt and shame

and depression

in his now twisted brain

i wish someone would’ve saved that kid

they saw him reading the old book

at all hours

digging in

money?

you’ll never make a dime as a writer they said

but it confused me because the world was going to end

and they were still thinking about money

money?

when we could be writing poems

for our friends and family

and having a laugh and keep getting on by

and writing some scripts that change people’s lives

before it all ended too soon always

anyway, i started making a lot of money with my writing

and they were still thinking about money.

money?

fuck the white noise

of your overthinking brain

let loose

be yourself again

that boy was always locally famous, never more

deep down you want to be known

deep down you want to be famous

why is it so deep down

you can’t let it be known

and just keep living so aimless

deep down you want to be known

deep down you want to be famous

dear young artist,

my words aren’t here for you just to read

i want you to make things

same as me

because that’s how we save our people

you and i,

by making things

that slowly remove the veil from other’s eyes

love is always easier in the summer

but, you and i in the winter, was something to see

a secret that poets know

writing poems every day

can make you a better lover

not just to your partner

but to everyone you encounter

poetry (the best head)

the poems

come

slow

at first

but

then

they start to

come

faster and faster

and harder and harder

and then they

just start absolutely fucking you

now they stay for days on end filling your head and releasing from you in the end

with words and words and lines of text oh yeah baby harder and faster they come

oooh yeah baby you always knew poetry was the best head and you’d keep fucking till you were dead

too much of good thing

too little of a bad thing

the only time i was going to crash my car was when i was writing poems on my phone

it was never about people liking your poems, youngblood

it was about you liking them

and feeling them

and making them more true

until your own poems could actually hurt you

and now you feel alive again