jb-cohen

[jb-cohen]

[jb-cohen]

[jb-cohen]

can i come home?

[jb-cohen]

I take all the times

I've wanted to die

and I coddle them

in my wings.

Crying midnights, alone,

become smiling evenings

where I sit

next to my heart

and let out

a brief chuckle

that sounds like a lullaby

for the river

and the nylon

and the razors.

Robert J. W.

[jb-cohen]

I came home to the greens of cheap jewelry

leaking down my sink

he takes my eyelashes in the palms of his hands

closes his fists

and hangs from them

my skin pulls the curve of my eyes, opened wide. delicate veins always beg for the pry—

I see him sober

and then I get high.

[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)