I suggest you donate the leftovers that
Have spilled on the floor
Where all those names you dropped
Tried to feed your ego.
The people you have met are not you
Their accomplishments are not yours
Any more than I give a **** what kind of
Car you drive
Do you think your status gets me wet?
You should think twice about
Signing your name because
You don’t even know who the hell you are

The "hurrah" has ended,

I am, it would seem, destined to be inevitably invisible.

"I just don't fit in,"

​I'm better off dead

"It's just a scratch,"

It hurt and it bled

"I'm just a little tired,"

I'm trying not to cry

"I'm fine, I promise,"

*I just want to die.

I'm waiting for the "block" to break.
My pen is filled with ink.
Nothing seems to come to mind.
I can barely think.

My rhymes have just meandered
Out the kitchen door.
Inspiration took a day off.
My life's become a bore.

The headlines don't excite me.
The president didn't call.
The queen did not invite me.
There was no mail at all.

The pope just went fishing.
Congress is on a break.
My lottery tickets have disappeared
And I can't stay awake.

I guess I'll stay in bed all day
And enjoy a lengthy nap
And maybe have a dream or two
To get me back on track.

I don't have a poem today
Or wait... I think I do...
I'll call it "I don't have a poem today."
And foist it all on you!

This is the end of the world, my good people;
Our sorrows have been for naught!
When your parents died and your babies wept,
Their strife will be laid to rest.
For who in fifty or a hundred years
will remember the old or young
We don't matter, none of us do
So as we end, our world does, too.

i get what it's like wanting
to but can't and feeling your
insides churn with the idea
of physical tranquility
just feeling like absolute ****
and just want to pull your
insides out through your
mouth just to see if that
would make a *******
difference at all, to anything
then tying them in pretty
bows and stuffing them back
inside you in any attempt to feel
normal and beautiful and worthwhile
but knowing that in reality,
they'll just churn around inside
until you throw them back up
plus more to leave you heavy
hearted and solemn
and much much worse than before,
a shaking carcass that never
worked successfully. a body
full of bones and barely functioning parts.
liquid drips from wrists and
thighs but the world keeps
on spinning and shying
away from the sun
because no breath taken
by even the most beautiful
of people in your direction
can help it
so you sit there in the corner
feeling more nd more remorse
pile on until you feel so low
you're just a puddle
bleeding out on the
bathroom floor
and that is the best
form you'll ever take*
because it's the only one
you know.

you're like bolt lightning in an old bottle
irrational and far too difficult to control
but then again no different to a shouting father
screaming wildly at his helpless child
that has taken to lying through his teeth
about the demons hiding beneath the surface
of his pallid skin.

as if shouting would ever make the world
stop spinning quite as fast, or make the
sun stop glaring at the faces of the forgotten
ones who reside mainly in their houses trying
oh so hard not to break themselves in half
while attempting not to let life take them
when it's so early in the year.