At every turn
You all blow my mind,
Why is this so?
Are the cloudy shapes a sign?
Where do you all get off
Taking my best wit, my best
Arguments, and flush them
Down the tube like it had
Absolutely nothing it meant?

Besides pushing me off
A balcony when I'm sad,
I may as well have the joy
In knowing that I'm here,
But just a fool who's only mad.

My final moments could be
A painful one, I've lost my
Friends, there is no lover in
My life, this wasted time I
Spend, I'll rather my work
Is never done then find myself
At these horrific bitter ends.

I write poems because it fills my world with stuff,
Stuff that originated from someone who inspired me,
That inspiration makes me feel this is enough,
Enough to be the one who with a pen can set rhymes free,
I find poetry gets famous as long as the writer isn't me.

It's just a thing I've noticed, this word or that one,
Bouncing off of the walls, filling the world with
Fighting, or maybe scrolling blankness in the halls.

It will all develop somehow, this poetic pointless tail,
Maybe I'll be famous, but we all know the truth as well.
I'll just go down in misery-not history-as being "someone,"
A starving poet, a musician, just another stupid useless ***.

Live life "without pain,"
Until you can no longer hold
It all back, keep it all inside,
Hide in the dark of night.

Live life "without pain,"
Show only half your face,
No one sees you're hurting
Until you've made them cry.