This is for the rainy days.
The heavy days,
Blanketed under a dark silver sky.

This is an image of
Timeless days.
Where both dawn and dusk
Fail to exist,
Because the gray never went away.

This is the light drizzle
Painting your glasses
With tiny cloudy droplets
That blur-out your vision

And makes the next step a mystery,,
As you pray
                  For a chance of sunshine.

This is for the helpless days.
Lonely days.
Where with every battle
Pits you against the world.
     And should you lose,
     Or should you win,
     Your victory is heard
            by only two ears.

These are the words for the
Mouse-like people.
The great number of quiet strugglers
Who say yes to the fat cat
                                  By Instinct!
So they won't be the meat
Of someone else's meal.
          \    \     \
But this is not to cast you down.
Not a giant- making pinching gestures
With people sized fingers.

This is a challenge!
A day to reach up into
Your oppressive heavens.
Cast aside the disciplinary
Blockade and- Breathe.

Breathe in the tastes
Of a life worth living.
Of the courage to be on your own feet.

And this is an urgency.
This is an urging that
All the doormat people
Sweep out from the heavy feet,
The ones you welcome for trampling.
Because|
               -You know exactly what you're
                 *Missing

When she turned her gaze upon me,
I was a mote of dust
caught in a beam of sunlight
I was huge and beautiful
and bright.

I laughed and danced
and shone.

And when she turned away,
a cloud moved across the sun
and I was extinguished.

I hate poetry.
Not for the same reasons you probably do,
I don't hate it because of the massive amounts of cliché love poems,
I don't hate it because of the over-used phrase "crime of rhyme",
And I don't hate it because I have something in common with Kanye West.

I hate it because it means I have accepted who I was.
I hate it because I hate who I was.

Today I stand before you as the "Anyone who's Anyone" kindof guy.
I consider myself to be the most important person in my world.
Everything revolves around me, and I know it.
Thats not an ego talking, no, it's more who I am.
Call me an ***, but to me, you will never be more important than Thomas Strout.
I am the Mr. Right.

But once upon a time, there was a poet.
A beautiful poet who's words were poison and had looks to match.
I was in love.
But I made a mistake.
I was really alone.
I relied so much on a different universe that mine got lost in translation.
Reality broke and I blamed everything besides her and myself.
I was my own personal chaos.
It lead to a broken heart beneath bottles and blunts.

My excuse?
I had none.
I was proud of who I was.
I loved living like that,
As everyone who does should,
But it was wrong.
I went through every kind of self mutilation possible,
And then laid in a hospital for 3 days, not remembering what went wrong.

I was no longer my own personal chaos at this point.
I was chaos.

So, I hate poetry.

Am I perfect?
No.
But at least I can speak now.
But at least now, after months that have felt like years,
I know who I am.
And I have a voice of my own.

And ****, does it feel good.