Nobody Else Matters

You mumble and you mutter
poisonous nothings.
You were bred badly,
born badly,
raised badly.
"Its not your fault,"
you claim.
Is it not?
Are the Manson children expected to be murderous?
Are the Cruise kids deemed weird before they have a chance?
Anyone can change who they were,
who they are,
who they will be;
as long as they want to.
But a lot of people don't want to.
Their too-hard basket is always brimming,
always in search of a bigger basket,
instead of doing something, anything, about it.
This is you.
Don't expect others to change you.
Don't expect others to help you.
Nobody really cares.
You can go on like this,
not changing,
not growing,
barely existing.
Or you can throw that basket into the wind,
let those past things flutter away,
forget who you said you would be.
Instead, just be.
Fuck everyone and everything else.
The only person that matters is you.
Nobody else.
Be the person you want to be.
Fuck that too-hard basket.
Life is hard -
get used to it.

28 Days Later

Only women bleed,
and thank fuck for that!
It's the reason they can't have nuclear codes.
It's the reason they can't be in power.
It's the reason they are repressed.
If men turned into cunts once a month,
they'd be repressed too.
Removed from the power to kill mindlessly.
Allowed to have no power at all.
Parliament and its power would be handed over to more reasonable animals,
like mice, or rats,
or sloths, or wombats.
Unfortunately we have to live with this,
and them.
Women.
Its unfair, I now realise.
Women should be shipped off to an island,
once a month,
to take it out on each other.
Not us.
Like a Hunger Games of bleeding cunts.
Being murderous bitches to each other.
Leave us men out of it!
We have our own shit to deal with,
without your fluctuating moods.
I love you.
I hate you.
You're nice.
You're nasty.
You're a cunt.
I'm a cunt.
The tears, the yells, the sobs, the swears.
Nothing is ever good enough.
But, then it is - after the floods have passed,
the rains have ceased,
the blood has dried and been washed away.
I love you.
I'm sorry.
I know, I know,
it wont happen again.
But then,
28 days later...

Count On Me

Count On Me

I want to touch you in a million ways,

And plant a thousand kisses on your face.

I would sail across one hundred seas,

To tell you,

You’re the only one for me.

With stars twinkling, billions above us,

We are the only two star crossed lovers.

I would count up to infinity,

To tell you,

You’re the only one for me.

If every rose had five hundred thorns,

Then I would pick you every single one.

You know you can always count on me,

To tell you,

You’re the only one for me.

J. Barrett

Name Unknown

Name Unknown

She lives in a cramped apartment,

stark grayed walls and dim light.

A painting fades from the suns rays,

that penetrate the grime.

No window drapes or coverings,

open instead to the fading sunlight,

and the cold of night.

A kettle on the sill,

no space on the counter.

A bed pushed to the corner,

facing a small TV on a small table,

sat upon a sea of papers,

and red letter bills.

Clothes in piles,

nowhere to hang.

A candle melted down and dead.

A deck of cards scattered and missing.

A soggy joker is in the bathroom,

sharing the cramped room of mildew,

with a black queen.

The shower head points to the toilet.

At the basin only the cold tap works.

The small medicine cabinet erupts,

spewing bottles, pots and tubes.

Wrinkled 2-ply and a puddle,

where the drain is blocked.

A run of water escapes,

slowly tracing a familiar trail,

across the worn lino,

toward the fading painting.

The home is silent and still,

as the rooms creak and drip.

She is working one of her three jobs.

She is never home.

She is never on top.

She never stops thinking how happy she should be.

She never stops to think how happy she is.

She is never living.

She doesn't want to be alive.

Her name is...

By J. Barrett

The Perfect Pair

The Perfect Pair

Like those shoes that fit so snug,

Or two perfectly matching gloves.

Like glasses that cut out the glare,

We are the perfect pair.

Like sinning socks (they're not holey),

And avocado and lime in guacamole.

Like those lucky pants that we wear,

We are the perfect pair.

Like those laces that tie up your shoes,

Or those laceless leather boots.

Like the scissors in the silverware,

We are the perfect pair.

Like your beautiful eyes that I see,

Or the tweezers you use to tweeze.

Like your silk and satin underwear,

We are the perfect pair.

By J. Barrett

Dear People of The Future

            Dear people of the future:

           

            Forgive us.

            Forgive us for draining the earth dry of its oil, sucking out the gasses, drawing all the precious minerals, leaving gaping holes filled with our sordid waste.
            Forgive us for piling the oceans with our plastic and poison; and annihilating all the fish.

            Forgive us for taking all the beautiful trees, we did plant some more, but we took them too.

            Forgive us for filling the air with toxins, for filling the earth with toxins and for filling our bodies with toxins; you are surely still paying.

            Forgive us for trying to play God with the flora and fauna. How many legs do chickens have now? Are cows just walking udders? Does corn grow storeys high? Is the grass still green? We killed so many species, yet tried to create more.

            Forgive us for being more interested in how we looked instead of how we felt.

            Forgive us for exploring the new frontier of space, before we fully understood our own vast front yard and deepest oceans.

            But most of all, forgive us for leaving you the job of cleaning up our mess

            We're sorry.

Teen Angst

Teen Angst

Teenage angst is the result of realising your parents can be wrong,

            make mistakes,

                        aren't that special,

                                    and are just like everybody else.

Parental angst comes from realising your children realise this.

Teens start to see their parents in themselves,

            realising that they have gotten similar qualities,

                        and they hate it.

Parents start to see their kids in themselves,

            realising that they have given similar qualities,

                        and they hate it.

And teenage angst lasts forever,

            it's just angst,

                        parental angst;

                                    family angst.

Test the theory,

            try living with your parents - again.