So I haven't had time
To read many prose and rhymes
Sneaking pretty words like drugs
From all the **** poem writing thugs
Hide up under the bar
I've only read two so far
Work is cutting in to my addiction
Reading and writing, my affliction
Maybe I can hide in the storage closet
That gives me time to write one comment
Jotting rhymes on my arm
Who said poetry didn't cause harm
Its my obsession
This is my confession
I cannot hide it anymore
I recognise I'm a poem *****
I go from one poem to another
"Feeling" them up like a lover
Then on to the next
For more word ***
Yep, I'm a ******-poemac
Addicted to poetry crack
Your pretty words are my drugs
And you **** poets are the poem writing thugs

When does ambition become greed?
When does need become self-indulgence?
When does therapy become whining?
We all want to be special.

Pretty Perfect Life Entrepreneurs.

Is it really human nature to not accept what we are?
An idealist can never handle problems that are hard.
A narcissist sees no problem at all.
And we all become recycled trash in a philosophical junkyard.