Lay not your glass slippers
Upon the stairs
For I am too infatuated
With the stars
To chase a girl
Who runs from them.

You know that moment
When you just want to
Shatter everything
And you want to have the power
To tighten it all into the
Clenching ball of your fist
And all you are searching for
Is some sort of hole in the canvas
Some sort of loose thread
Of thoughts
That you can staple around your fingernails
And t
e
        a
r
You want to slice upon the sky
Let the sun bleed out of it
You want the ground to rupture,
The carpet to erupt
The clock faces to be seared right off
The only satisfaction
You can imagine is one made of
f
r
    a
g
             m
   e
n
           t
      a
t
       i
o
n
   ?

You know that?
Yeah.
This is my rage song.

Hey there, woah there
well I'd just like to
take this fine opportunity
to tell you that I assure you,
my good sir, that I don't
give one-eighth of a
one-hundredth of a
flying ****.

A poem is like
A piece of wood.
It can be ripped,
Chopped,
Shaped,
Sanded for smoothness.
Sometimes you nail it;
And it can stick like glue.
You can drill a hole
Right through it,
It might bore one
Through you.
It can get under your skin.
But when it's cut
Against the grain,
It should be read again.