That beautiful brain
With the wise ***
Attitude
So reluctantly romantic
It makes your sweetness
Feel like flying
Even in memories
It's still a high
So **** fine
Too
With your afro
And your braids
And your "frohawk" jokes
And your teeny tiny pudgy belly
Lovely frame for that perfect belly button
Half outie
That's also an innie
That **** southern twang
Playing my heartstrings like a
Banjo
So perfect
You sent me **** picks
Even when you were limp
Because you've  got that kind of
Confident swag
A boy not scared to be soft
Is **** as ****
You're simply
That Boy
For me

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

Is there really anything more boring than perfect?

I give myself permission to say
Stupid ****
Diddlysquit
I'm not above
Being foolish
Embarrassment is
A funny dish

Some day
Humans might be able to
Change their personalities
Through brain surgery
Designer personalities
Right off the shelf
It may happen

I wrote you fifty poems, and somehow you let the one I wrote about him break your heart.

Have you ever noticed
The only wild animals which flourish
In human's company
Are the pigeon and the rat?
Have you ever noticed
Now what do you think of that?

At what point did we agree that *** was number one
And poo was number two
Poor poo, forever relegated
To be in second place
No wonder that it stinks so bad
The revenge of solid waste

It's unlikely I'll ever make "THE DAILY."
(Woo hoo, to you who do)
I'm more of a chipping away with a pick
Than setting up the dynamite
Type of writer.

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

You're so ******* yourself
Don't give yourself an inch
Punch yourself in the eye
When you deserve a pinch
Can't you see how awesome you Are?
Well, I sure do
I think it's time you realize
There's so much right with you
(You know who you are)

I tend to keep my poems quite short
But it seems they're not well-liked
It took some time before I realized
Poems are like penises
The favorites are all bigger-sized

Earlier today,
I heard Stevie Nicks singing Rhiannon
I was blown away by the lyrics
And thought
My God; I gotta share This!
So I looked them up
None of them really stood out
I realized the poetry was not in the words
But in the way she sang them
(Insert something poignant.)

Poets have magical powers
Though they'll never tell you so
They can list all your faults
Right to your face
And you will never know
You'll get so caught up
In the beauty of their style
They'll flat out call you a bafoon
And you'll just sit there and smile

Who else but a poet
Can use words like "behold" or "doth"
Without standing on a stage
Acting out a Shakespeare play?

I wonder if a "daily aasignment"
Would be popular
Like, each day,
New subject
We might get a lot of
Interesting poetry
And feed creativity

Poetry is the art of taking a universal feeling, and making it personal to each individual.

Watch out folks
We've got an uppity
Holier than you
Who seems to think he's got the right
To regulate what you do
Apparently he insists
None of us should post
Unless we've studied the poets
That he likes the most
Now, I'll admit, his taste is fine
And his choice of poets good
But knowing classic poetry
Is not what makes a poet, or should
Poetry has nothing to do
With all the poems you know
It's entirely about what's in your soul, and how you can make it show
So write, write, write
And share, share, share
Even if you've never read
Any single poet, except the one living in your head.

Please pay no attention to the last share.  It is plagiarized, and I'm trying to get it so the real writer has access.
(See Nat....you were right.)

Some people define poems by length
Or....jeeesch,
Everyone has their own definition
Poetry, is something I learned from, grew from,
Or identified with
Whether it was one line
Or twelve pages
Written in the poet's own
Unique language
That's poetry, to me
Though I've seen clever be poetic, too.  I suppose clever is something we all learn from, which is, of course, poetic

When you read a poem and say
"Why didn't I think of that?!"
I guess that's just the poet's curse
We all have worn that hat

Political correctness
Dictates subjects we should not address
Yet we've elected a leader who isn't politically correct

If poets took over politics
The world would do just great
Though, they'd have to work on the schedule
Poets always run late
They've got to stop and study
Every curiosity
Which, according to a poet
Is everything we see

This guy done disappeared on me
Well, not exactly
But I'm feeling neglected
Although he owes nothing to me
When he comes back, he'll see this
And probably freak out
Wondering if I'm some ******
Who's gonna start to bug out
It's doubtful that I will
I'm way too level headed
But I'm not above a guilt trip
With men I haven't even bedded
Run, run, run
As fast as you can
Mr. I Hardly Know You Man

You're so full of ****
Someone needs to say it
But you will sit
And claim I'm full of ****
It's a prerequisite
For people full of ****
To see it fit
In all who claim you're full of ****

There's a thin line between obsession and love
Often hard to discern
Obsession sits in the bathroom while you ****
Love shoves a magazine under the door

Glistening
Amber
Kaleidoscope  (a la corn and carrots)
Colliding olfactoraly
Straining
Struggling
At last,
Sterile

His name is Jonny Dickumb.
He might have trouble finding a wife

La-a.
(It's true.  There's a girl named "Ladasha" whose name is spelled La-a.

So many boys
With beautiful minds
This place is like
My *******

It makes me feel bad
To know Jesus'
Last thoughts were
"Father
Why have you forsaken me?. "
If the New Testament
Was written today
That would have been
Most certainly
Edited out

"Suicide has a way of leaving a wake of potential saviors behind it."
--Quinn

There is a very fine line between poetic love
And staking
Especially to the stalker

The pen may be mightier than the sword
But the strongest of all
Is the heroic keyboard

We are so funny.  Jesus was born in a "manger."  Who in the halibut says "manger."  
Jesus was born in a barn.

Once upon a time, in a galaxy far far away, there was a society which permitted the mentally ill people to steer the conversation on mental illness.

He's not the guy who knows what women want
He's the guy who says what he thinks women want to hear
Without taking the time
To get to know any women

You lost me at "cacophony."

One of those souls
You can tell
He's gorgeous
No matter what he looks like

The ice cream man
With his insistent melody
Holding parents hostage
To the tune of
Roughly twenty bucks
For items they could easily have Remembered
To buy
At the grocery store
For $3.95

She is smart
And she does stand out
But she is too resentful
At society
Because it does not adore her

He turned our conversation into poetry for me.  
Wrote me back my words
So beautifully
I wondered if that's how he saw me
He gives me too much credit

Please,
PLEASE
Whatever you do
Do not love me
More than you love you

Prostitution is illegal
I'm not sure that makes any sense
First it is her own body
And how could it be a crime
To charge for what you can give away for free?

The most profound words
Throughout history
To me:
And maybe to you:
"Forgive them, Father
They know not what they do"

I write too many poems
They're bursting from my brain
Hundreds may come out
But thousands still remain
I've got so much to say
Most of it is true
It's lifted from my shoulders
When I share it with you

Back in the day
They had prophets
Now, we just have mental health patients

You went so far out of your way to insult me
I couldn't help but take it as a compliment

I've never been in the same state
As that boy
But I feel his presence
Whereover
And
Allever
How can it be
That boy
Means so much to me

At least, it's how I feel, but I think the public (us) agrees.  Please do not send me a private message, telling me about what you thought about my comment on your poem, without even telling me which poem you are talking about.  I'm not keeping a personal log of comments.