I.
This is just another bad poem
Just vomited-thoughts-left-on-paper poem
This is a collection of grammatical errors
This would surely make my English teacher cringe
But no worries, I didn’t write this for her

II.
This bad poem is for you

May my subject and verb disagreement
remind you of all those misunderstandings that lead to raised voices
and nights where I cried myself to sleep

Sentence construction was never my strength, it still isn’t, maybe that’s why you never truly understood me—
called me difficult and bipolar
You said that I was too much

Did it ever occur to you that you might just misread me, like homonyms,
same words but with different meanings
misread my jealousy with accusations,
my concern for excessive affection

You said that I loved you too much
but darling, did you even love me at all?

Did I put too much meaning on your words,
turned them into similes and metaphors?
Turned your literal statements into figures of speech
You told me that you liked me,
so I blissfully interpreted it as a hyperbolic expression— called it love when obviously it wasn’t

III.
I was never good at using punctuations
I put too much commas,
unnecessary, misused, I kept trying to hold on
Afraid of the inevitable end,

Switched to semi-colons in an attempt to make it a few words longer

Because despite all our grammatical errors
no matter how shameful our piece of literature was to the English language

It was beautiful to the untrained eye,
To those who read poetry as it is
To those who don’t dig deep in search of true meaning behind the metaphors
It was beautiful to me

But I eventually learned that infinitives and infinities are different,
in spite of sharing infinite as the root word
Like our love,

started with something so promising
but unlike most novels,
there’s no happy ending

So I accepted defeat,
accepted the inevitable and bitter end
No more committing the same mistakes over and over again,
the same words over and over again,

Accepted the fact that synonyms existed,
words with the same meaning but also entirely different
new and unfamiliar, foreign and peculiar

IV.
I accepted defeat
No more commas or semi-colons
We have reached the couplet of our free formed sonnet—

I was never good with endings, I don’t think I’ll ever be,
So darling I hand you the pen, set us both free.

I see you dancing in your words
and I see you smiling too
I hear the music of your life
that brought me to you
and into the night
carried by Pegasus
to reach the stars
those distant memories
until you fade out
a wonderful reverie

Blades like ceasure
but i suffer from amnesia
learned how to swim but never how to breathe under water
come to far but forgot what i lost
Im the definition of what never was

tried to breathe but ****** on nothing but vapors
second hand smoke full of generational curses
i tried praying but that wasnt really working
I tried getting lit but that wasnt really worth it
consume all that was around me till I was alone
and now im on my own
hakuna matata
but im too stressed for my own good
faith trust and pixie dust
but I'm not exactly sure where to find any of those things anymore
True loves kiss heals all
but how can somone love me if I dont love myself?
obssed with beauty
but cant find it in the mirror
i dived w=right into this life
but i cant breathe under water
the lady of the lake lured me by telling me I was beautiful
and that she needed me
but her 'true love's" kiss did nothing but drown me
im filled with blades like ceasur
petruding out my back from all the times ive been called a heathen
evertime they lied and said im what someone needed
so now im bleeding and pretending im living
but I must have amnesia
cause I just keep letting it happen
over and over and over
Im over it
come to far to forget what I lost
but the memories are whats keeping me for moving on
Trying so hard to stay strong
but im so
very
weak
im so gone im the definition of what never was
all thats left is a faint memory of me
thats not even who i really was

but i got blades like ceasure
i suffer from amnesia
learned how to swim but never how to breathe under water
come to far but forgot what i lost
Im the definition of what never was

You.
You who taught me love and kindness and hope
and knitting and optimism and forgiveness and baking.

Yet you were also my first loss.
You taught me grief and how nothing stays the same.
Even a mind can deteriorate so much I wonder it makes me wonder if
you ever were so good.
Maybe I just exaggerate. Because you aren't  here to prove me wrong or disappoint me.
But how could anyone have been so good?

But even if I was looking at you through the rose tinted glasses of youth
I refuse to tarnish my opinion of you
I will keep these glasses forever
I insist.You taught me all this and more.

Because of you I visit grandad more  
to remind me of what
I lost
and a reminder to appreciate what I still have.
That house will always remind me of you
I hope that is ok.

I can’t be delicate,
small, sad-looking and innerly folding,
my legs will never oragami-fold themselves
over my tired tired fat chest   .

I am blessed to be big, though
my *** is a curse, how it juts and forces
itself to be known by peoples’ eyes and
rudely introduces itself to chairs, knick knacks,

anything unfortunate enough to exist
within its gargantuan wake  .

I am blessed to be huge but small,
I am blessed to warmly ******* and spill
my flesh over everything I touch & taste;

I am forced to give myself up to
the world, to give my huge body up as
comfort to the multitudes of humans
I love and crave and want and dream up

because they will never find me small and cowered,
will never offer their bodies
to comfort mine, assuming instead that
my huge warmth can sustain its
own flame .

My own body can’t contain the
sad swells and lovely lakes that surge
and bash against its own hide  --- - ---

that’s why my stretch marks
leak and tendril their way
around my arms,
my belly folds,
my underloved thighs,

and I wonder why we both want
to tender my fire
to a low smolder
and let it fade out

do we
think that trees with thick
lush, curved and pink
foliage are somehow
whole-er
than trees with paperthin leaves?

my bark still craves
the sun, which sometimes
comes in the form
of human flesh