To speak the truth is to offend,
but I do not have a kind word to lend,
as you scream and shout about my doubt,
expecting me to lie in order to please,
but I have no reason to appease.
In society the truth is cruel,
like how that homeless man smells like ****,
or how your still foolish, despite all the school,
but you must insist of living in a skit.
In this play everything is fine,
there are no stereotypes,
there are is no swine.
The fool in the corner was brought down hard,
by societies expectations, with which he was marred.

This is not the facts of life,
there is ******, ****, followed by strife,
people will **** for their own personal gain,
and when you want sun, it will often rain.
Some men work hard,
to see their life fall,
while others lay back,
and try to steal it all.
To recognize the truth is not a sin,
to bring it to our eyes is not offensive,
as we must learn to save other's skin,
instead of living life with only a grin.

Are our words not like a used up *****,
standing along over on 2nd street,
being used over and over,
like mashing a dead horses meat.
And as we insult, degrade and beat her,
until she is no longer wanted,
we only cause a stir,
and we walk away undaunted.
We do not look into the past,
unless it has a nostalgic feel,
nobody wanted her to last,
she was only a news stations spiel.
For our words reflect our past,
and the stories we tell of them,
but these stories will never last,
until we speak of a shining gem.

Let us walk on these streets of gold,
with a Cadillac and Ferrari on the side,
no one dares to be as bold,
as those who show their money with pride.
Keep walking down the way,
until the ground turns gray,
here we find the place of life,
cut apart with a knife.
The attitudes are dim,
the people are looking slim,
for they must continue on,
working on a lawn until they are long gone.
For they visit the golden street,
not to live, but to weep,
as they work to eat,
payed with lies and deceit.
Do we notice?
Do we care?
As their children lie naked and bare.
Do we help them?
Do we feed them?
Or do we just send a prayer?

The truth is...
I hate my poetry,
it weighs on me like a seven ton anvil.
Laughing and shouting out,
about my faults and doubts,
which stand tall before me.
But I am to vain,
to remove them from sight,
as I want everyone to see the rain.
The drought that is within,
can only be cured,
by the peeling of my old dead skin.
So to write it all out,
is to scrape it all off,
until it is as tall as a skyscraper.
As I keep writing the poems,
the building will sway,
until it will finally give away.
I will be crushed beneath the dust,
and no one will question the rust.
For they could see,
it tilt and fall,
until it crushed me,
under my self-righteous gall.

There is a shadow over my shoulder,
which follows me around.
I did not invite it,
nor will I fight it,
for it does not make a sound.
But even in the night,
when everything is out of sight,
I can feel it on my back.
with a whisper in my ear,
it instills fear,
of what I will never do.
The failures of life,
the constant strife,
which I face everyday.
I continue to walk,
as the shadow will stalk,
following like a tiger and prey.

I can never seem to finish a book,
I often get distracted you see,
another story will catch my eye,
and carry me out to sea.
This lack of consistency,
has put a fear in me,
that I cannot create my own.
For we have a story,
which has so much glory,
like the great loves we learn in class.
A man killing hundreds,
through a war of the worlds,
as he fights for the love of his life.
But what I worry,
is that in the great flurry,
our love; I will accidentally bury.

Looking at you as you lay asleep,
unsure of whether to smile or weep,
for my heart you will always keep,
for you are my shepherd and I am your sheep.
I will follow you until my feet run red,
and I will hold onto you until I am dead,
to leave you fills my heart with dread,
for you are the cure for the cancer in my head.
Your heart is like gold,
resistant to mold,
the cure that I need,
and am lucky enough to receive,
with all the love that you bleed,
to grant me my reprieve.
Words cannot fathom what you have done,
letting me live, as if I am someone.
Someone who deserves the love that you present,
when you are the one who deserves to be content.
So now that I am healed, alive and well,
I will cut out my heart and present it to you,
please do not mind the smell...
for it has been molded for as long as I can tell.
If you continue to scrub it clean,
for you and only you,
my heart will gleam.