I'm scared
scared of things ending
scared of patterns breaking
scared of dreams broken
scared of words unspoken
scared of time going by
scared of a disappointed sigh
scared of a painful shove
scared of never finding love

But I'm also happy
happy about things ending
happy about patterns breaking
happy about dreams fulfilled
happy about silences killed
happy about times gone by
happy about nights ended on a high
happy about a friendly shove
happy about our one-time love

To write of pain,
is to bring pain onto yourself

I got a couple dents in the fender
Of my ****** car,
A couple rips in my best pair
Of my cheap jeans.
My scuffed up high tops
Are wearing thin,
Imperfection is my
New best friend.
My favorite t-shirt has
A couple of holes,
And my wallet's thinner than
My shoe's soles.
The scars on my skin
Are bright and white.
Imperfection is my
New best friend.
The streets of my ghetto
Are graffitied and dark,
And the knives in our pockets
Always stay sharp.
Though my best has a couple
Of nicks and cracks.
Imperfection is my
New best friend.

i never have liked uppercase i's
i know it's absolutely stupid
but they always make me feel more important than others
like i'm always saying I, I, I.

see even that was weird
way too many eyes
so i spend half my days, proofreading my lines
to make sure that i'm exactly the same size
as everyone else

when i first met you it absolutely blew me away
to find someone else who lowers their eyes
i'm serious, it's amazing to find someone who wastes as much time as yourself
hitting backspace, and
cursing auto-correct for not allowing this behavior

but after a while i noticed you stopped with the i's
maybe it was around the time **** got weird
maybe it was a fad; or i have some absurd superstition
but it's cool
You always were the bigger person, anyway.

I live a poet’s life in an anonymous plane
Unseen by those considered normal,
Unheard by those deemed sane.
The only proof of my existence
Dangerous knives of poetry in lines on paper
An alias moves the pen in my hand
That scribbles stinging, bitter words
About love, death and the atrocities of man

I am anonymous
Even my name is not my own
My thoughts are scrawled wickedly with intent on paper
For the masses to observe
At a distance my carnivorous demanding audience must remain
From physical contact with these dull creatures
I gladly refrain
Retreating behind a mask of stone
Beneath it a face that bears lines of great sadness
A frozen sculpture of a heart for many years entombed

So it is and shall always be
Truly my words are all you will ever see
Closing off the door to reality
With the stroke of a pen
To my invisible life I hastily return
I am anonymous

This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby