I wrote a poem that didn't rhyme
Just like I do each day
I don't know what is up with me
Something keeps getting in my path

I'm the poet with teribel gramar
And I cannot spel
I set a long this careir path
But it hasnt gone sew well

Notice me!
See how brilliant I am!
What is wrong with your eyes?
If you can't see my greatness
They're surely telling you lies

I forced myself to write this
It's not sitting in my brain
It's backwards, surely
Like tracks which bust from underneath the train
Nothing much for me to say
Just dawdling with my pen
And as writers, we all know
I'll soon be back here again

There are two kinds of poets
One who says in ten words, that which needed twenty
Or one who uses five hundred words
For that which could have been said with seven

I'm a French Fry at a burger joint
I'm always seen as less
No one really comes for me
I'm settled for, at best
I don't get my own wrapper
Or individuality
And before I got here
I was burned alive in grease

I like to keep my poems quite short
That's the thing about me
It's not that I don't like to write
I just have ADD

Perfect is a fluid word
None of us know what it really is
We think we know
Or at least that we recognize it when we see it
But the truth is, none of us have seen perfection
Because perfect doesn't exist
It's the mirage in the distance that we all strive to achieve
But every "perfect" thing could, in some small way, be better

Each one of us could use a change
Though most would never say
When it comes to happiness
Our pride gets in the way
We wave and nod, and smile and pose
Pretending all's ok
And if we live our lives just right
It will come to us someday
But what if someday never comes?
At what point do we say
"I think it's time for me to stop
Getting in my own way"

It's not that we want to be famous
We really want to be known
Unfortunately, we're all unique
So few of us stand out
Alone

Girly mustaches are never much fun
They're a blight to everyone
Whatever you're packing between your legs
A girly mustach puts you in the dregs

Poverty is the fault of the poor
We will not admit it
But we're surely keeping score
From the start to finish
We won't question
Karma's bad luck
Unless, of course
It's aimed at us

She named her dog Bingo
As an "inside" joke
She had lots of money
But soon she went broke
She gave it away
To all stories of sobs
And kept sharing her body
With Toms ***** and Bobs
A social butterfly
She over-shared
But soon she was dying
And nobody cared

I'm that noisy neighbor
Who keeps you up at night
It's not that I like yelling
But I really love to fight
You feel sorry for my children
I've seen your pity stares
All the same I tell them
I'm the only one who cares
They believe their life is normal
It's the only one they know
They head to school and don't act up
They surely wouldn't dare
Mostly because they couldn't stand
Their noisy mother coming there

I wish that I could be a ****
But I'm not built that way
Though I'm not sure what makes a ****
The line seems pretty grey
Maybe I'll define a **** the way that most guys do
A ****'s a girl who sleeps around
With anyone, but you

Do you hear the footsteps drumming through our shopping malls?
Make no mistake, they have become our new-age hallowed halls
Cookie-cutting each of us
To unlined paper dolls

If I tell you that I want to die
Will you listen then?
What if I say that I'm just sad
And could really use a friend
Must I self-depreciate
To get your ****** attention
Pretend that it's myself I hate
To spark your intervention
I am mostly happy
But still, I'm sometimes sad
Apparently not good enough
At dwelling on the bad

There are two kinds of people
"Us" and "Everyone else."
Though the notion of Us is fluid
To some, it's all about wealth
Others think it is color
Or nationality
But mostly, when we say "Us,"
We mean "People who think just like me."

My chipped nail polish turns him on
He finds beauty in imperfection
I think I'll show him my surgery scar
To help him get an...

What happens to dirt that you throw in the ocean?
Does it become sand?
Could it be that dirt is an object
That can only exist on land?

Listen, Mr. Poopie Face
Wearing all that pout
I'm not sure how it happened
But you let the Grumpies out
We've got a long, long day ahead
No time for all this crap
But one thing I know for sure
Nana needs a nap

Everyone else's *** *** stinks
But mine, it smells just fine
Though I've never put my nose
Near a *** *** that is mine
It makes no difference, either way
I wash it at least once a day

It's the one who is saying what we don't want to hear
Who is really saying the most
And the one pushing all of our buttons
With whom we will find the most growth
It's the guy begging for change on the subway
With whom we don't want to share
And the addict under the bridge
For whom we don't want to care
It's the fast-talker who says nothing
With whom we entrust all our riches
But the farmer covered in dirt
Can't afford to patch his own britches