It makes me angry
That I cannot escape visual dissection
in my favourite place of words.
One picture
And a few hundred poems
But it seems I must be judged by the former.
Apparently,
I am trying to be popular,
I have machiavellian mammaries,
Cynically garnering votes.
Capable of that, it would seem,
But not of writing something worth reading.
I am angry that I allowed myself
To hide, anxious and afraid of upset,
I refuse to feel ashamed.
I am here.
Here I am.
I'm beautiful INSIDE.

Summer drops warm rain,
Sultry breeze singing your name.
I am wet and hot.

Hashtags. I hate them.
I would rather be ignored
Bye Hellopoets.

Hashtags.  Ugly slash.
Poems full of trash, rated
Highly, hashtag rash.

There's little value
And no pleasure, in regret,
Yet, I can't forget.

Play that song,
We'll dance.

Whisper those words.

Press
undress
Yes, yes

There is and never will be no
Don't go.
But yes, always,

*Press
Undress
Yes, yes.

There is a butterfly inside me.
I am a jar.
Gossamer wings broken and singed
I magnify the sun
And burn her
Fragile, feeble flutter
All the beauty that could be
Glass is merciless
I am a jar.
There is a butterfly inside me.