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i'm liam and i write poetry that i feel too pretentious to share with people i know, so i post it all online and feel all fuzzy when strangers press the red heart. if you reblog my work i'd probably pay you back in sexual favors if youd ask because goodness my ego goes shhheww. thats the noise my ego makes when its getting out of hand. -onomatopoeia- which is a word i had to look up to spell by the way. i rhyme and stuff sometimes and sometimes not becaase god nobody rhymes anymore. if you read some of the shit on here it'll be pretty evident how i used to spend most of my time but id appreciate it if you dont think im a dirtbag without sending me a message saying hey are you a dirtbag to which i shall reply no, no i am not a dirtbag and that will clear the whole misconception up and i wont have to post a bunch of bullshit nature poems to try to show off my sensitive side and stuff like that. everything i write i despise within a couple reads because it all sounds so goddamn pretentious (a word ive used twice in thisdescription) in fact this description feels a bit pretentious now that i read it over. (three times) ohwellohwellohwellohwell
65 notes
1 year ago - Reblog

a kingdom for

a kingdom for

a ring

a whore

a kingdom

made of glass


a kingdom for

a thing


a kingdom

came to pass


my kingdom for

a catch

a cold

to lie and 

make amends


a kingdom that

i’ll cast

in gold

if i could

make some friends

29 notes
1 year ago - Reblog

a fiend

a fiend is lock your

lips, they’ll sink

but this 

will last the winter,

your growth is justly tapered 

and who’s afraid

of frozen


between a freezing


27 notes
1 year ago - Reblog

you stink like 90’s telivision

here’s the sound of a broken lighter

a token fighter,

soaking whiter than most require

    he stunk like bleach

    and she lingered in black spit

    of teethy grit

    to sleevey shoulders


though stained

so after           

and soaked in cider


 Still is so alike her

30 notes
1 year ago - Reblog

sexual encounters with drunk old women

there’s no pride in it

but we’d laugh

it off till’

she’d pick us up, casting


in the rear view and


it would end in nothing


we’d stand where the bars were

letting out and

vomit dirty passes and


in the literal sense




   break backs and

   hit cribs, sucking this,

that and the third


when she’d



no one

really knew what to do.

40 notes
1 year ago - Reblog

old skin

sinew and the sullen lapse of fountain pen to paper

old skin,

like leather gloves

impressed upon the chamber

of my


regrets so, vintage they conspire

in their


a glow mistaken for a lighter

7 notes
1 year ago - Reblog
mynameisoctober: a poem for a poem i'm never gonna write (here now) is one of my favorite pieces i've ever read. thank you.

i’m trying to get out of the habit of publishing peoples messages to me but for the sake of shameless self promotion i’m just gonna have to. thank you so much, thats only been said to me once or twice and its the most meaningful thing i could possibly receive

115 notes
1 year ago - Reblog

a poem for a poem i’m never gonna write (here now)

i’m murdering something



it’s a crime and i know

i should just tuck it beneath the mattress

but god knows

i’m too grand for all that


always dressing em’ up

telling em’

"to the street you

whore, and you come with praise or

don’t come

at all”

dressing em’ up all fancy and shit and

the ink…

the ink is hardly dry


i’m murdering something


now and

i’m a coward.

a coward for caring.

all sorts of pretty words.

a rising in my gullet and i can

smell them in conspicuous belches.

"what’s wrong" they say, and i leave

the room, swallow and

murder again.


because i love you.

because they’d hurt your feelings and

i’m no slugger letmetellyou.

i’ll talk the shit but the gut is all butterflies

so emasculated it deserves no rougher a word

no darker a phrase than


butterflies shitting away the bloated heap i

rest upon


and i’m murdering something



a coward killing


a writer,

circulating old poems for a

second loop and calling it


but masturbation

a coward killing

time, killing

fetal compositions.

a call to the clinic

mid stroke

mid conception


a murder


a murder


and to think

i could have dressed her fancy,

praise in pocket, coming

home or waiting

while i


39 notes
1 year ago - Reblog

stealing china from abandoned houses (though it cant be stealing if no ones home)

we stole a fur coat

burning plastic trinkets in an

open flame, dancing and

throwing up.


pieces rang like

wrinkles that we, to walters had

washed away,

the house smelled like loss and

loose lips and

kids called it haunted though

kids are fools and call

things many names as the





wish i could remember

that taste

like steel wool ought to

smell, scraping mattresses until the

sides are all frayed and



a fat family lived

here and had stuffed their

prescriptions along cheap jewelry and

coins of

no significance.


stole them

too and sometimes i

bring them to my nose,

trying to remember.


things are dark in medical abuse and

you forget quite




figure the

faucets’d spew

roaches or

rainwater or


and what

i’d give

to take one taste for

old times


and sip

along another.

24 notes
1 year ago - Reblog


read a

book, a

lover’s always losing


31 notes
1 year ago - Reblog

drunk in ihop


creeps consort and

coax a kill and

so nods a knack

for nuisances and

narcoleptics alike,

there’s stuff growing in the


disposal, find

me blues, find

a fork somewhere in

the sink and

we’ll eat moss like

moses ate


find a frequent and call

him a friend

find a leper and call

him a loser

and we can all drink

till we’re tipping brims

and waitresses and

such and

so forth and

such and

so forth