Poets, we fall harder than others
We take blows that football players
Could never understand
Because we take internal damages,
We fight off emotional savages,
But we are different.

Different than what society created
Because we are the result
Of what we as poets choose to create
So would you cease and halt
At the thought of a dagger into your heart
Or would you turn it into a work of art?

Society has people thinking they must,
people find it hard to trust,
teens build sadness until they combust,
and "perfect" is just a few flaws away...
A world so puzzling with nowhere to fit,
narrow minds thinking this is it,
cold souls and fire we spit,
and we find cons in all of our days.
Keeping one eye on the clock,
no patterns yet we hate to be shocked,
to subtle addictions we flock,
and we wonder why we're in dismay...
Adjusting for a fulfilling life,
getting ****** and kissing knives,
but we're always so surprised,
when we come to our leaving day.