I know she's there inside of me
and how she makes a scene,
    just when I see you with her,
         I turn a little green.

she hates me.
she doesn't know me.
she took him away.

her eyes are brown but they're tinted green with the scales of the monster that lurks beneath.

her fingernails are short but they grow sharp into claws and take him away from me because of the green monster that lurks in her fingertips.

her words are sweet but they cut me with the teeth of the green scaled monster that inhabits her tongue.

and he lets her.
and he lets her.
and he lets her.

from the mind it flows
traveling through my veins
down my bones.
every part of me rages
for comfort and ignorance.
I erupt,
my emotions drain
oh I wish
I wish I cared less.

And here we are, a bunch of
  bad poets writing bad poetry
   liking each others thoughts while
    hating our own words, trying to
     keep ourselves open and free in
      a world full of cages and traps, pens
       full of ink, thoughts full of rage, a blank
        white surface being turned into a stage and
          we're yelling and screaming in vain as another
            bad poem dies on the page...

When a poet is on a roll,
just let them
feel good,
for if
but for a little while,
it's worth it
to us.