jb-cohen

[jb-cohen]

[jb-cohen]

Cowardly Poet

Write, write, write, write,

It's all I ever do on these late ass school nights.

Staying up way too late writing pounds of poetry that doesn’t mean anything,

to anyone,

but me.

and knowing in the front of my mind that I will be so tired,

So, so tired the next day.

It really is a loud thought,

The "you should probably go to bed" thought.

And then the afterthought almost pleading me to forget about it all.

Forget, forget, forget.

Oh god I'm going to be so fucking drained..

But I have so much to say.

So much to say to the people who don't want to listen,

To the people who simply won't listen.

So much to say because I leave things unsaid.

But, sometimes it's better that way though,

Some things are better left

unsaid,

unraveled,

frayed

and disheveled.

It's in the beauty of destruction.

So destroy me, and I'll turn it into art.

It's my weapon against your destruction to make my own vacant battleground.

And there's always residual smoke living in the air, and in all the rubble of this

bone cracking,

tooth smashing,

Blood draining,

flesh ripping,

brain aching,

muscle tearing,

Mess of overplayed memories on a tv screen.

Reruns of you,

that I keep watching over and over.

(I'm just staring at static.)

so when you finally look back,

And set foot back to where we still thrived,

back to when the things we had together was its own living species.

(Its extinct in you, and alive in me)

I hope you really take in the damage,

looking at the smoky blue hue that resides in the sky,

and tenderly inhale.

I pray it coats your lungs and sticks with you.

And every time you cough up blood

I hope you think of me.

Because I am the layer of ash,

Gripping the tissues inside your ribcage.

(Because I never let go.)

So hurt me,

I'll silently voice about you.

Love me,

and I'll take this pencil and rip up pages over you.

(Destroy me, I'll turn it into art)

I'll spend my days, nights, weeks, months, years and,

Write.

It's all I'll ever do

Wasting time, wasting words, wasting pages,

just to beat the clock.

Writing pounds of poetry.

That most people won't even see.

It's a waste of my art.

And I wasn't really fit for this part.

But I'll take this art and use it to replace your destruction

with broken words from a small voiced person.

But honestly,

Is this even a poem?

[jb-cohen]

Hollywood

The boulevard is flooded with

so much artificial light that they had to

wrangle the stars and trap them in concrete

under feet to ensure they'd be seen

[jb-cohen]

[jb-cohen]

about writers block

[jb-cohen]

Poem/Photo mine.

[jb-cohen]

There are nerves in my stomach

Often described as butterflies

Sometimes I feel them as bees

Busy as can be

I feel them now bustling as I am anticipating an

Arrival of

another

Waiting for that door to ring

My skin scraped up

Just above & below the knee

I keep finding myself beat

outside & hanging

around men

But I never minded a bruise every now and then.

[jb-cohen]

[jb-cohen]

incoming spring

I woke up to the sound of liquid funneling through the drain

But it was from my body, blood and brain

The only way I knew how to send you off was through the neck of the bottle

And down it

to the bottom

Skin prickling with sea salt

I turn the fan on,

I wanted to mimic the wind of the incoming spring

In like a lion

Out like a lamb

maybe that’s to say it isn’t easy on anyone.

Letting the lion run its course

Is as important as letting it go

and I think I’ve found my lamb.

[jb-cohen]

无题

别来数百年

入梦常得见

今日复同游

多情不敢言

Untitled

Centuries have come and gone

In dreams I often see you yet

Today we meet, our paths align

But too much feelings I dare not confess

[jb-cohen]

The intimacy of the escalator

Knowing there is depth

and warmth to every

Coat and bag around you.

Most people are good

I think most people may just want connection

in the same way I do.

-may 12, 2024

[jb-cohen]

Gorgeous

@kiisuuumii (what every poem wishes it could say to you in the end)

[jb-cohen]

Frayed familial bonds

still choke my

placenta from time to time.

I cannot be reborn

in the shadows of

greed and gossip

so I snip the cords

and imagine my mind

free.

I'm better than them.

My blood

is finally mine

and it

is my own Assateague,

not their prison.

Robert J. W.

[jb-cohen]

can’t stop thinking about this poem. Unbelievably raw and real. Can feel this one. Love when I poem makes me crazy like this

Where Did You Go?

Why did you leave a note listing planets you’d rather live on? How come the microwave looks like it may have caught on fire? Why are you smiling? Why did I find an empty bottle of whiskey hidden in the dryer? You should probably find a new place to live. I should probably find a new place to live. Why is there a ‘Get Well Soon’ card addressed to you on the coffee table? Did I hear you vomiting last night? Of course you didn’t hear me vomiting last night. Why is there a half-pack of cigarettes in the refrigerator? Why didn’t you tell anyone where you were going? Who drew a picture of King-Kong climbing a stair-master over my to-do list? Why is there ash inside the fake flowers? Why is there ash inside the fake flower’s fake vase? Why is there a banana plant in the bath tub? Who ate the last slice of pizza? You should probably find a new place to live. I should probably find a new place to live.

[jb-cohen]

23.05.24

wonder what it’s like to be loved,

always pushed aside, shoved.

does it feels like a drug,

shrug.

[jb-cohen]

I’m sitting with the silence tonight 

It crumples plastic 

And crushes pills 

It ends warm embrace and deeply inhales 

Something is rising from those stacks of twenty dollar bills 

It’s putting me in funnels and spirals 

[jb-cohen]

I can’t get enough of the way Ryan Ross writes

Ryan Ross poems I found today 🤍