Horror Author
The earliest memory I have
Is not a happy one
I was four
Somewhere in Ohio
My sisters were
Eight and ten
We three sat watching
Our parents arguing and fighting
It got violent
I started anger management counseling
When I was six because
A kid tried to help me put away a puzzle
I told him no, but he kept helping
I picked up a chair and hit him
I had to learn
At an early age
Not to let my temper control me
Now it takes a lot to make me angry
From the poetry collection Men Are Garbage.
Men Are Also Sexually Harassed
Women think
Because I’m a man
I don’t know
What it’s like
To be harassed
I worked at
A gay bar
For five years
I’ve been
Groped and rubbed
By men and women
One drunk idiot
He walked up to me
And said
“I just want to fuck you so bad”
I ignored him
He cried
All my time there
The only people
Attracted to me
Were either drunk
Or on cocaine
I still feel
Like unwanted
Garbage
The Bluest Eye
I’m not handsome
My body is furry
I’m not what they call
“Man Pretty”
I don’t have abs
But I don’t have
The “Dad Bod”
I don’t have money
Or a nice car
My eyes are
The color of shit
My glasses make them
Look too large
My hair is thinning
And already turning gray
People like my beard
But that’s all
Maybe they’d think
I was attractive
If my eyes
Were blue
From the poetry collection Men Are Garbage.
I had nowhere to go
So, I walked and walked
Until my entire body
Was numb or sore
I ran through a list
Of people I could call
But it was late
And feared no one was awake
I thought they wouldn’t answer
This happened once before
And no one responded
I felt displaced –
I tried to sleep on a bench
My sore body hurt more
I tried to sleep on the grass
Until the sprinklers came on
I wandered about for a while
When I decided to go home
I first tried to sleep in my car
Cracked the window for air
But all I got were small bugs
Buzzing – buzzing –
In my ears and everywhere
I gave in and finally
Walked into my darkened apartment
The bedroom door closed
Two months sleeping on this couch
What I wouldn’t give to be alone again
I woke up after others
But the bedroom door still closed
With the clothes from the night before
I left again to be anywhere but there
I sit in a library – stomach moaning for food
Transferring my thoughts and my pain
From my body to the ink to the paper
I just want to be alone
From the poetry collection Men Are Garbage.
James Pack 