For Jo

I hate poetry. Poetry sucks.
Poetry is just a bunch meaningless words and rhymes and bullshit garbage slapped together by pathetic losers trying to get in touch with themselves and then get laid.

It has to follow rules. It must have structure.
Fuck the rules and fuck the structure, because it doesn’t mean anything, not in the real world, not in my world, not to me.

See, my world is simple. I’m simple.
Simplicity is the name of my game, here at home or at work or out drinking or out playing golf, or whatever I spend my time doing.

Like today. It was simple.
I got up, had breakfast, cleaned up the house, made things sparkle and got ready for your visit, but then you didn’t visit today.

I went to the meeting place. I waited for you.
But then what ever keeps you away from me kept you
away from me again today, just like all the other times, like all the other days, and all the nights.

You’re feeling guilty. You‘ll be too sad.
You don’t want to cheat on a piece of shit husband that cheats on you, doesn’t come home at night and treats you like a maid or like a fucking whore when he does spend time with you.

You can’t break your vows. You’ll go to Hell.
You don’t want to piss off a God who you know exists, and you don’t want to do wrong by a church that doesn’t even recognize your marriage and that won’t even let you attend until you confess your sins again.

You won’t admit you care. You shouldn’t care.
I’m only the guy who makes you feel alive and makes you smile and makes you feel sexy and beautiful and needed and wanted and horny.

I made you come. I touched you.
On a night when you were alone as a women could be, I met you and held you and touched you an kissed you and made you feel so special that you nearly started to cry.

But you felt bad. You were mad at yourself.
You were so mad that you tried to run away from me
forever and pretend I never existed, and refused to speak to me, so I backed off and used a different method.

I write you stories. I write about you.
The stories I write you make you so horny you have to make yourself come in the bathroom while at work, again and again, and then go home and fuck yourself with dildos and vibrators because your piece of shit husband who doesn’t love you like I do doesn’t even want to have sex with you.

So I’m alone at my home. You’re alone at yours.
And at night we dream about holding each other and
making love to each other and being as close and two lovers can be to each other.

But those are just dreams. You’re confused.
You don’t know what to do and the nicer I am to you the more you want me and you keep going home and trying to get your husband to treat you as good as I treat you, but he won’t, or he can’t, or he doesn’t know how to.

So you see me at work. You talk about your life.
And I listen and we talk and I do what ever I can do to make you feel good about yourself and make you understand that he isn’t trying to hurt and that you are a good women, but then you’re more confused.

I’m not confused. I know what I need.
I need you to be a part of my life and fill the empty spot In my heart and help me learn to live and love and be a real man.

I need you, Jo. You know I do.
But you won’t let me into your heart and let me be a part of your life and let me help you feel good about yourself and your life and your world.

You didn’t show up today. You don’t want me.
You let the other influences in your life pull you away from me because you refuse to be selfish for once in your life and let yourself be happy.

I’m unhappy too. I’m alone, again.
I have nothing to do but sit here and drink and miss you and wonder why you won’t let me into your life, and question my promise to you.

Yes, the promise. You remember that?
I promised you that I would wait for you, until you are ready for me to be part of your life and part of your world and part of your future.

But don’t worry, Jo. I’m still waiting.
And although I’m disappointed that you aren’t here with me this afternoon, I won’t go look for someone else, because you are the one I want.

I have feelings for you. Strong ones.
Feelings so strong that it can make me shit out the dumbest fucking “poem” this wonderful website has ever seen.

But that’s OK. I don’t mind.
Everything I write I write for you, Jo, and what ever the other people think, fuck ‘em, I don’t need acceptance by a bunch of masturbating men, I only need acceptance from you, Jo.

So I’ll wait for you, Jo.

Love, Eddy.