The tortential spam that is my poetry.

Some formatted poem that I cannot spell the name of. (the type of poem, that is.)

Playing titanic.

Hopelessness makes up the canopey
that hides the sun as I walk
in this hollow sea.

My anxiety climbs higher like a monkey
flipping and turning my stomach, as she stalks
from the trunks of hopes won from the canopey.

Title waves of leaves fall free,
as the jaguar pounces on her prey, hunger talks
of creating loss in the sea.

She hid my body in the shade of the trees,
I am the titanic wrecked on land and mocked
for trying to sink holes in the canopey.

She played her game with dishonesty,
by planting trees where she walked,
personifing the canopey
and locking me in this hollow sea.
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I know it needs more work, I plan to do some more editing still.

His tongue is shrivled and burned
from enjoying too much sour candy.
When he was a kid, his dad owned a
convienent store, and one day while
he gorged himself in conversation, he offered
a young girl dressed in yellow a piece of chocolate,
and when she bit into it,
the store was robbed.

This man with a sweet tooth did not speak a word,
he only shared a note with the cashire that said:
"You are a preistess of cavities, and I want
every day that you sold, I want the money that proved
you exist."

She gave him her past 12 years, a thousand dollars
from a hundread thousand encounters of when she
reminded him of lemon candy.
She had a complexity back then, a sour coating on her
sweet words.

In his head he unraveled her from a woman of many tastes
to simple need, need for him and the candy.
She was a receit for his broken teeth, for the burning sensation
that he cannot return.

And when they were both tired of these sweet memories,
he ran out onto the streets, stopping to look back
at the flavorless shop; and not at the police coming
to take what's left of him away.
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Sorry for raising the dead.