Despite the fact that I thought you were hot.
What you did really did not hit the spot.
Because of you and their foolishness.
Now I will have nothing left.

I will be homeless.
Forever lost, and left talentless.
I hope these people never find peace of mind.
Because I was the one who was left behind.

I know you did it to be kind or hurtful.
What they did for you and your people was helpful.
Until someone else stepped in and held my life by a thread.
Maybe someday soon I will fall dead.

Because all the lies they feed us all.
I hope you have fun at the mall.
Have fun person who’s name rhymes with dating.
In that corner I was trying.

All you fools who ruined my chances time and again.
Like with moving arms I even right with a pen.
Again and again I play a song.
For me you better hope nothing is wrong.

I know you were married.
But I did not make the advance you carried.
Have fun all with your picnic.
Because you can like an apex you can have it big.

I didn't think it was possible for anyone to be so pitiful until I discovered you and your pathetic drivel

You attack other writers who have talent and a fan base because all you can manage are scribbles

Maybe your mother should have used a coat hanger to pull your fetus right out

Then none of us would have to read your wasteful words and the **** you preach about

*******, you're pathetic and you should give up on writing
You're worthless and dull, there's no point in you fighting

*Eat some potatoes and drink some whiskey
Shut your mouth, and die

You ****, and your dad should have kicked your *** a lot more, as a kid

Then maybe you wouldn't be such a sad *****

.
In mid airs, dimly,
The ****** birds cluck,
Only flutter useless wings
For they are grounded,
Nor are they beautiful,
O how they feign singing,
Gutteral cluckings only fit
For predators to stalk,
Lame ugly birds prefer
The company of other
Lame, ugly, groundy birds,
With no things, ever, to sing,
Only to preen and beak
For scraps under trees,
Where winged songbirds
Lit by the flighty sun
Do truly sing.

Yes, you out there wherever you may be
You try to steal our souls in poems
We know you, to the tee

What twisted motives to be us, by proxy, what cowardess you be
What an empty vessel posses you, such sadness, such despair
You pick our hard imagined fruit and not from your own tree

You clone our minds, like leaches on our skin
You wish us harm, you thieving ***
You wormy monster, a slug, next to kin

I curse you
I loath you
I hate you
You stealers of our youth
Betrayers of our written souls
What lacks is pride, and owners of the truth

I have the gift of art,but I can't put it to good use.

Creativity blurs my mind but when I touch a piece of paper with a pencil,a pen,a brush it still remains empty.

I'm too scared to even attempt to let the art flow,because I know my paintings,sketches,scribbled messed up drawings would only land me in handcuffs