So I have this idea to do a collaboration poem with someone. Where we would set up a premise and then we would each choose a theme and write and put them together and see how they work. Maybe have them be different POV's or anything. Shoot me a PM if you're interested or anything.

The only way nature can compare,
is by saying something like:
If nature was nearly as beautiful as you,
then we would be living in the wild.

I would use nature to describe you,
but you are so unnatural,
it would be a disservice,
or an insult,
to your beauty.

The basic art of poetry is to portray what cannot be seen,
whether it be a feeling of love and happiness or a different theme.
To write of how we feel so much for one woman over the next,
but the recipient of the feelings differs between each text.
Is what we write, truly within our hearts,
or is each poem merely appealing to everyone's different parts.
When I read the poem of heartbreak,
can it truly relate to all those things that kept me awake.
Or was the poet simply throwing words onto the ground,
and attempting to gain support over his illiterate mound.
I do not believe that anyone can feel what I feel,
but then again,
to everyone else,
what they feel is more real.

Oh how I fight,
so that my heart is always with you,
with the temptation my chest tight,
but I always will hold true.
As the thoughtless lustful bodies fill my eyes,
attempting to distract me with an ****** twist,
I recognize they will be my demise,
and create an opportunity which will be missed.
Because my dear, you are but a miracle,
carefully crafted by what one could only assume to be a god,
our love is almost satirical,
causing every potential disaster to appear as only a broad.
With my heart trapped in your hands,
it is slave to your hearts demands.

There he was, just a boy, sitt'in by the street,
impressionable and young, innocent through and through,
up comes a *****, giving him a smile that was sweet,
crooked teeth, coked up nose and spitting a loogie of chew,
she looked at him and impressed a world he never knew.
"Hey there boy, you're looking bored, happen to got a dollar?
I swear, you got enough and I'm gonna make you hollar!"

The boy stared at the boisterous cleavage which she presented,
as he didn't realize the trouble she fermented,
he stood up tall and looked her in the eye,
and replied to her with his voice so wry,
"Now listen up ***** and listen well,
I won't pay a dollar until I prove it isn't hell!
But if you can ****, and ****, well then time will tell..."
The boy had no idea what he had said,
but he wanted to be like his father who was now dead.
The ***** looked down in utter shock,
but this didn't stop her from making money from ****,
she taught the boy her every move,
which in the future he would learn to improve.

When it was done that young man had changed,
his mental capacity had re-arranged,
you see, in his life he had learned so many things,
about violence, *** and all the drug kings,
people would blame it upon the violent/minority gene
but what can you expect, when someone is just thirteen?

Look at what I've done,
do you even see?
The work that I've completed,
it's what defines me.
At least that is what I say,
when I discuss my work to some,
but that is not what is at play,
to your opinions I succumb.

How can I stop this feeling,
of pining for approval,
and begin my personal annealing,
to fight your disapproval?