“Don’t worry, he’ll punch himself in the face,” lady luck said.

That bitch has been on my case

for over a decade.

We haven’t made love, yet

But she tempts me, with chance, with her charm

that she carefully hides


her silk panties.

You can’t sneak-up on lady lucky.

I hide in the bushes, and wait for her

but it’s like she has female radar.

Three male friends

walk her to her car.

Does she know I’m here?

She turns her head, and looks into the bushes.

Then she gets into her brand-new Mercedes.

Was that a smile?

Her body guards choke on her exhaust,

as they walk towards me.

“Hey! Were you spying on lady luck? You can’t look at her without our permission!”

I put my binoculars away.

It’s just as well… she carries pepper spray.

The next day, I decided on a more proactive approach.

I learned her schedule.

I staked her out.

She always jogs in her short shorts

near the beach

where the guys leer at her.

I could chase her

and catch her,

but she saw me coming

from a mile away,

and ran faster.

It ended with me, feeling

like I was going to die.

Lady luck is a bitch.

When she smiles at you,

you think you’re going to be able to scratch that itch,

but no,

you end up scratching yourself.

To all the men who scratch themselves:

you don’t need lady luck.

She is more trouble than she is worth.

To write a poem from your guts

is better

than being praised by her.

She always wants the next hot thing.

She doesn’t want the truth, if it’s ugly.

All I see is ugliness around me

and a few

very few

beautiful things.

I will write about them.

So what, if lady luck thinks I’m a loser?


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