Will told me to post this and I still don’t want to but happy new years to all of you who read my shitcan poetry

I’ve been stood up.
I should have left a message.
I’ve put myself out there.
I think it’s because of my moustache.

We could have been great you know
I’m not like anything you’ve ever had
(I probably am). But I have brown hair,
do they? Do they trim their nose hair?

Or give you great vanilla sex?
Cause I can do that.
Have you read about condoms?
Cause I do have them.

And I’d love to lay with you
and I’d love to cry with you
just in case you have to
and sometimes we all do.

Have time to procreate?
I own a queen sized bed and some really nice shirts.

And at your work
I knew I was struggling
with my face
and this thing above my upper lip
that you most likely despise
because of your father,
who molested or beat or babied you
had a thing
on his face like mine.
And I’m sorry I like theatrics
and facial accessories
because baby, just tell me
I can shave
and I think you’re worth it
and maybe I’m not good enough
right away. But I’m more than
an apron wearing shell
that makes you great sandwiches
and gives you that extra cheese
cause, baby I feel for you
and I want to know what makes you tick.
I want to know you
crazy.

Good Christ
Are you this lonely?

Cause I sit in certain corners
of my room and get cold,
I mean really solid,
frigid.

I can’t move against
these things that have been happening
beneath ice clad sheets
I can’t get up

in the early morning
although I like that time of day
for falling back to sleep
in what could

and will never be of our memory.
Now I sit and watch the cold
dissipate on the big window
that acts as my mind's sentry.