In 17 years I've learned
nothing is fair,
any shrivel of happiness will be taken,
not just taken, it'll be ripped out
of your hands.
In 17 years I've learned
no one wants to help
unless they get something,
someone is always waiting to
knock you off the podium,
and parents are the first
to take your dreams.
In 17 years I've learned
that I don't want to be here
so much so I want to scream.

Broke- My wallet
Broken- The promises I've made
Break- What I need.
Breaking- My heart
Breakable- My job, I skipped too many days
Break-up*- What's happened to me.

I said yes when I should've said no
And I kissed you when you needed to go

I smiled when I should've cried hard
I freely opened when I should've closed my heart

I even loved you more when your love's a fake
Oh the things I did just to be your mistake

she loves him
like she loves to watch the sky turn orange every day

she loves him
as much as she loves to write poems in her worst state

she loves him
like she loves the promises behind every "come-what-may"

she loves him
like love is something she's not afraid

Buenos días American virtuoso doyen's.
Buenos días English poet's between and around london.
Buenos días African designer's of the untamed poesía,
Buenos días Asian wordsmith's all over new and old Asia.
Buenos días Spaniard men and women of spicy descent
Buenos días to the rich, young, old, poor, to those who don't make rent.
Buenos días to the Arab's in dusty sand's, also those not Arab, just middle-easterners with a pen.
Buenos días to people's not discovered, lost-clans unknown to men, though with their pencil markings on walls- we will discover.
Buenos días to you who are in agony, may that agony leave.
Buenos días to those who smile, continue to be happy.
Buenos días to the hip hoppers and rappees. Freestyle for me.
Buenos días to the country music makers, play the acoustic please. Buenos días to the rock stars, drum a verse and sonnet,
Buenos días to the jazzy's play a saxophone so **** I can't forget.
Buenos días to the bluesies, drop a baseline of the fifties.
Buenos días to the poets in big, large, tall, small, or no cities.
Buenos días to those country, with that southern honey charm.
Buenos días to the east coast, York-jersey-maine-all around, where the city lights take away Your stars.
Buenos días to the Midwest, heart of the land-
Buenos días to the west coast, Washington, Oregon, Arizona, Nevada, Colorado, all of you, especially the cali-forn-i-ams.
Buenos días to all of you, and a Buenos días for the next day.
Buenos días for the world of poetry as a whole.
Buenos días I'll say.

You see her tears behind
The mask she wears
You take pride in
Taking what happiness she has left
Your core is so empty
No soul for you
To have any feeling
You attack her with words
That suffocate her self esteem
You hear the 2 am breakdowns
For ***** sake, she's only thirteen
You see the scars
The ones she thinks she
Covers up with fake smiles
What will be your plea
When you're ultimately put on trial
Your malevolent ways will come to an end
And when this is all over
Not even the devil himself
Will be there as a friend