Tuesday, August 8, 2017

OATMEAL


The idea behind this poem was that I wanted to write a poem that would be fun to read in front of a poetry class. It's dedicated to a girl from my old college poetry class who always wrote poems about suicide. (RIP? -ed.) C'mon, man.


OATMEAL


Oatmeal is actually a dope meal--
nothing quite matches the throatfeel
of oats cut with steel. I feel like squealing
when I see your face in the way they're congealing.
Yes, I'm aroused, now, and this robe's revealing
the way that these hot breakfast thoughts got me feeling
I need you baby, right here in my bowl,
helpless, and under my constant control.
We will be happy and safe in my room
with your  face still intact on the tip of my spoon.
Blowing on you with my hot morning breath,
I feel like I've gotten over your death.  

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