i could just kill a man

musty air being
pushed around
by old failing

i wake up each
morning covered
in sweat

my patience is
wearing thin

and at any
moment i'm
bound to fucking

and i can close
my eyes and
imagine telling
the officers i got
too damn hot and
motherfuckers had
to die

they'll laugh

uncomfortable at

and call the psych

for this water gun
doesn't have the
force i so desire
it to have

empty pockets

your dark emerald eyes
pierce me in my dreams

a haunting ghost with
lovely curves

apologies always fall on
ears that need to hear
something more

and all i'm left with is
empty pockets and a
tattered soul

sense of humor and
personality only gets you
as far as the credit card
can reach

it's another hotel room

another lonely lobby

another phone left
ringing forever

nothing good is walking
the streets at this hour

J.J. Campbell (b. 1976) lives, writes and dies a little each day on a farm in Brookville, Ohio. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Chiron Review, Poetry Super Highway, Horror Sleaze Trash, Nerve Cowboy and Gutter Eloquence Magazine. You can contact J.J. via email (jcampb4593@aol.com) or via his homepage: http://sites.google.com/site/losersincsite/

2004-2012 Underground Voices