failed attempt at a song lyric with the word Jesus on it

Why don't you tell Jesus
I'm not any good
Had so many girlfriends
With none of them could
Be honest, stay longer
Than a year or two
Now they all walk past me
Just like strangers do

Why don't you tell Jesus
I'm not worth of him
Been wasting my own time
Been dumping my dreams
That I know much better
Than this empty life
Than this going nowhere
And letting you down

Why don't you tell Jesus
I'm dying to ask
Why has he been absent
And gave me his back
If he is your saviour
Why won't he save me
From living this nightmare
And rotting within

Why don't you tell Jesus
I'm not any good
I don't deserve pity
No more further proof
'Cause all I've been doing
For the last few months
Is watching The Wire
On cable reruns

Why don't you tell Jesus
I'm fond of my sins
That my soul is wasted
All scars well concealed
That my back is broken
My credit score ruined
From drinking my ass out
And playing the fool

Why don't you tell Jesus
I'm not any good
That I'm not worth of him
That I love you too


bryan proctor (Laconia, NH, 1976)

point

Always write poetry that gets to the point
point.
Never write poetry that misses the point
point.
Only include details to connect to the point
point.
Don't waste words that don't relate to the point
point.
Always write poetry that gets to the point
point.

Hey, is that a squirrel?


henry kellogg (Boston, MA, 1990)

fairy tale

Dedicated to all who wish for nothing more
than to marry the one they love






The white picket dream,
I share it too.
But mine contains two dresses
with two bouquets,
and a flower boy.

Our images differ,
But keep the same outcome.
To be forever
hand in hand,
with the one you promised
forever to
in a white dress.


tiffany r. ragsdale (Mt. Vernon, MO, 1988)

throw him a curveball

Late at night
when streetlights silhouette inebriated youth
I sit alone in my living room
under my favorite blanket
riding cotton waves with flattened palms
like grease traversing a rose petal.

Sure, sometimes it’s lonely
sometimes it’s sickening
and sometimes it’s just another night alone.

But every now and then
I hurl the blanket to the floor
pop open a bottle of wine
and hunch over a legal pad
clutching a pen that secretes blood.

Blood as black as ink.


cliff weber (Santa Monica, CA, 1986)