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you grew on me like skin
And i remember looking
into your eyes and finding kin
i wish we had hung around longer
but i know u do not miss me
And moments that held me..
vacated you and i
This is no poem,
(Because a poem must be written by a Poet.)
I don't have to tell you that,
You can see it quite clearly,
What I write is ugly,
If my words were alive they would be real trolls,
I don't know...At  least I know what I'm talking about,
That's more than I can say for most of you self proclaimed "poets."
And by the way, who said you could call yourselves that?
Sometimes I'm good
But now I'm even better
I can't control my feelings
When I break out into sweaters

And colors stand out so much
And then also I wear some collars
People think I have it made
But I feel jealous of ballers

And people who live with others
And people who live with brothers
And sisters and then their covers
Hide all of their different lovers

But hiding is not one way
They take them and then here's what hurts
There's one thing and then another
And I might just be a pervert

But I can't avert my thoughts
I would love to be in a circle
Spinning a bottle hotly
And making my face turn purple

It turns red! And white
But I want more social pressure
Not the keep-me-up-at-night one
But the one that seems much better

But it can't be fabricated
And it can't quite be sought out
And it won't happen to me
Because I have too many doubts

And shrouded beneath my mouth
Is a superego completely
Controlling my every move
So how could someone ever read me

And be comfortable or open
When my mind is like the ocean?
I go with the flow but know this
I can take you on a gross trip

And by that I mean a lame one
Where your boat is somewhat closed in
And you're trapped with me and feel some
Unappetizing emotions

That's the mood that people's faces
Take on when my mouth is open
And then I go out and chase them
But my heart just feels quite broken

And I used to think it was them
which is odd since I often blame me
But then my new realization
Made me wake up to the new key

See part of me loves all people
And part of me holds myself back
So if I could just now solve that
Could I live how I want real bad?
This is unorganized like my thought when writing lol
Complicated and lovely
Graceful and *****
Love and all its tragedy
Drags the innocent into uncertainty
Pretty flower, prim and proper
Had to do what everyone told her
It was his time to return
And she had no time to mourn
She was already gone
And he had to wait for the sun

Married away was the sweet flower
Lost in blue was the Great
Locked away happily in a tower
She never thought of her lover’s fate
He built a fortress with all his power
Built his way to the top with a compelling name
Yet she never saw his tragic effort
She never noticed his fabulous fame

Wrapped in a web the author was
Watching all the tragic souls
Lost in a whirl of their own morass
The lies all lined with gold
Angels eat their cake
Going along with all the mendacities
Turning eyes to the shade
The innocent in the midst of uncertainty

Love in the worst form
Beautiful and torn
Wrong and adorned
Pure enough to mourn
Never amounts to success
Love is sinking
Lost in a dream
Like boats against the current
Borne back ceaselessly
Back into the past
This poem is my own interpretation of the Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Black cotton pants
Mirrored by a black sweater
Tight at the cuffs, but soft everywhere else.

These are the beginnings of a man
Gentle in his own way
Feels and falls often
On the words of others
A melancholic poet

He goes into long tangents on his head,
One looping into another like the hair on his head
Capable of enjoying good wine, but not the
Good company of his friends.
All he wants is a quiet night alone.

There may be no end
To the verses he writes:
Literary, yet with a tinge of
Harsh bite
Criticizing the commodities encountered in life
He dabbles in drama, debates, and critiques
This poem is ending
But his words will live on.
I find that (for me) it's so hard to write about something you can't see. This time is an exception.
Typically I'm not someone to be written about
I'm not outstanding in the emotional department.

All I need
I don't need much
Is a gently warm body
And peace of mind

We need to experience more and write less.
Longing hearts lead to broken spirit,
Which ultimately means you'll never get laid.
If i don't put a period in the third last sentence it won't sound like a definitive statement. This bothers me.
I see two different places,
one out of each eye
And it keeps causing my wires to get crossed just like my footsteps
I'm always tripping over my own two feet, like a kid wearing their mom or dad's shoes
I just don't seem to have it down, yet

I've seen a few dozen worlds,
met a few hundred folks
Maybe even thousands
I honestly stopped counting
Too many fake names and forced handshakes
Too many lines traced over my skin by people completely and obviously unworthy of my time
I've loved the horrible
The evil
The insane
I don't believe in the devil, but I swear, I once slept along his side
Kissed him every morning
And said "I love you" every time
I've danced with werewolves under the full moon
I've ripped the flesh from innocent bones and howled with all my friends
I've captured fireflies and held the galaxy in my hands
But I've never been happy

Things have always had a way of working themselves out
I'm lucky to be alive after all the times I've teased death with my body
I've shown him parts of me no one else has seen
He knows me well
And he's waiting patiently for me to be his

I'm walking forward with heavy boots slowing down my progress, but the heaviness is only making me stronger
By the time I reach my destination, I'm going to be ******* unstoppable
I hope you're ready for me when I show up on the other side of the shadow
There’s a menacing chill
on the air
this evening.
“Had I the wherewithal
I’d leave this place,”
I think to myself
as the first warning is issued
by that unfriendly cloud
hanging low and dark
over the mountain.
While once I thought that
the rain would fall with purpose,
I’ve come to understand
that floodwater has no manifesto
except to place the scumline as high as it can.
We can stack these sandbags tall
around our hearts
without regard for what’s on either side of the dam.
They’re only transient monuments to ineffectiveness anyway.

An assassin stands at the corner
wondering if I’ll ever leave my house
and its warmth.
I have news for him, though…
There’s nowhere to go, and
the weatherman thinks we’ll have a storm.
Hoping your gutters are clean.
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