Hello, I suffer from a rare disease.
This malady brings me to my knees.
It isn't commonly viewed as a curse,
But right now I couldn't possibly feel worse.
I hear a line in my head and then
My body is filled with adrenaline.
I have to sit up and write it out
Or else it'll rip my soul from without.
I'm spitting rhymes like it's out of style.
I think I'm gonna be here for a while.
It's 3:33 and I'm still awake.
Inspiration, please, give me a break!

I dare not scratch the surface Plato itched,
For fear I'd break my fingers on the stone.
My faculties in circles whirl around,
Which metaphor Aristotle would bemoan.

My femininity is undenied
And thus my musings, when they first began,
Would be utterly rejected, undeniably rebuked,
By one featherless bipedal man.

The History that gulped Atlantis down
Into its sunken depths, has made a grave
For all free thinkers, locked by secret PINs.
Philosophy, no more, these souls can save.

I carry naught but spades in both my hands,
Seeking to unearth artful thought's tomb.
Labor-sweat pours down, yet I am left to merely mourn
The heartbeat ne'er since heard from Athen's womb.

The tears slide down my cheeks.
It's been a rough few weeks.
I try to rise, to move, to stir;
But all I can do is cry
Into her fur.

Her tail flicks over my arm.
It stings from fresh self harm.
I sob in tandem with her purr
'cause all I can do is cry
Into her fur.

Her rough tongue scratches my nail.
I stifle a broken wail.
My vision's nothing but a blur,
Since all I can do is cry
Into her fur.

I cannot surmount my situation.
I'm fighting a war above my station.
Perhaps someday some change I'll spur.
Till then, I only cry
Into her fur.

You've heard of a 'heart of glass'.
Well, mine is made of soap.
Careless hands can gut it.
Your fingernails will cut it.
You lay upon me all your grimy guilt,
Then leave me here, unrinsed, with all your filth.
I numb 99% of my own pain,
So the 1% can come eat me up again.
I'll cover you, My Dear, in soft, safe bubbles;
Neglect my own, but listen to your troubles.

Be intentional in all things.

The moment you succumb to thoughtlessness
Is the moment you embrace your doom.

She wasn't particularly pretty,
Just a plain, average girl in high school.
She wasn't particularly brilliant,
Though no one would call her a fool.

She wasn't very athletic,
Preferring to sit in the shade.
She wasn't very artistic;
Her drawings were all left unpraised.

But she wasn't going to block out the cry:
That though childhood may have been tough,
She must stop defining herself by her "wasn't",
And learn, what she was, was enough.

I will take the truth from your lips
And kiss the pain out of it,
Till all that remains
Is our happy little lie.

I will take the love in your gift
And throw away the wrapping bit,
Revealing the gains:
Our happy little life.