Anyone had your poem stolen by this freak?

http://hellopoetry.com/-****-you-poetry-computer/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/****-you-poetry-computer-1969-/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/****-you-poetry-computer/

Hope you done stealing poems.
Can you write poems?
You got a ***** loose and you need help.

there’s someone new
in my life currently,
a boy who has taken over
your role and acted it out
better than you ever could.
you made me afraid
to dive headfirst
or march into love
with a blindfold over my eyes,
but i see now
that you were a warning
and not an example.
his gentle hands
and gentle eyes
show me what it means
to love and be loved,
a lesson i would have
never learned if
you hadn’t taught me
exactly what love wasn’t.
(every day i am stronger.)

i could write a million different combinations
of letters and words, a thousand ways
to tell the world how i feel about you,
and you’d still have only the one.
you say i love you and all i feel is
a stabbing pain in the middle of my chest.
you see, i find it unfair that my words
blossom and expand and touch the sky,
and yours are as predictable as a hurricane,
noticeable from a thousand miles away.
i’m supposed to be in love but it feels like
the scales are tipped in my direction,
and what a peculiar thing to be worried about
when i have someone who would
take the stars out of the sky for me.

all the boys
who do
end up in the
trash.

i can start every sentence with
if i were beautiful . . .
and i still won't be

but if i write enough poetry
at least i'll have something beautiful
to show for myself.

sometimes,
I sit at my desk and take out
a new piece of paper,
with no creases, no wrinkles,
just ready for words.

my pencil is always in reach,
sharpened and ready to
make contact with the paper to form
words
and string those words into
sentences,
and connect those sentences to make
stories.

but there are times when
I have no inspiration,
and I stare at the lined paper,
pencil suspended in mid-air.

my thoughts are jumbled,
churning in my head like a tornado.
leftover emotions,
wisps of nostalgia.
they toy with my mind,
tugging me in different directions.

I never know what to do-
poetry or prose?
first person or third person?
what do I even write about?

I get ideas.
they formulate in my brain
from one of the thoughts,
and they cling to each other
for dear life,
as more thoughts are sewn on.
more pieces of a puzzle,
more factors in the equation

my heart beats faster
as my excitement leaps.
and I bend over my paper,
pouring those thoughts and ideas
onto paper, taking extra care to
connect and loop my letters as I write.

but as more words
are added to the paper,
I realize that this was indeed
a bad idea,
a stupid one that'll go
no where.

scribble scribble scribble,
I tear my paper,
along with the ideas,
and I toss it into
a garbage can,
filled to the rim with
wasted paper, useless ideas,
and irrelevant thoughts.

"I'll just write again tomorrow,
by then I'll have inspiration."

that's what I always tell myself,
as I leave.

you were never supposed to hurt this much
they said love would be good for me
for the both of us.

you were supposed to be the breeze in my face as I strolled along the simple shores
not the tiny coarse grains of sand I didn't notice stinging my eyes
or the persistent wave constantly knocking me over
as I tried to savour the sea.
you were going to be the cool wind on a hot summer's day
not the heavy storm that drowned my garden
and the dark cloud obstructing the sun's light so my flowers were never allowed to bloom again.

you were pain
and your grip was endless
why did I think you could heal when you were the cause?