The Tao Of Cliché...

Welcome to Bad Poetry Week!  Along with the one story, I also wrote a few shitty poems at the cabin in the woods last weekend, and now I feel the need to share them with both of you.  As the saying goes, "Misery loves company." 

It's hot
and it's humid. 
But it's the perfect temperature,
and the best climate. 

The bugs are all over me,
a distraction. 
A thousand tender caresses
from The Mother. 

I am wearing too much clothing. 
But I am completely naked,
open,
and exposed
to the air
and the light. 

On opposite ends of the wood,
I am too close to you. 
But I want so badly
to be inside of you. 

There is no sound here. 
And it is defeaning. 

I am completely sober. 
And out of my fucking skull. 

I feel like shit,
and have never felt better. 

Here,
with you,
I am all alone. 

My books
all define the Infinite,
while void
of any meaning. 

I Want so fiercely,
like a sucking hole in my chest. 
And I am content. 

I miss you all,
now that you are here with me. 

The wind swirls around us,
and nothing moves. 

My belly,
my heart,
and my head
are all empty,
so I nourish the insects
with my skin,
and my sweat,
and my breath. 

And when the storm
finally breaks,
and the rain
finally comes,
I will
finally
be dry.