Born, I wasn't made for the riches, They've forgotten my mother's stitches. Borne to a home built by exiguity, Hope to stay in for a brevity. At a loss of hope I pondered: What much is there to live for, I wondered. But vengeance gathers in a bunch, So I opened every door of ****** nonesuch. Crawled in and sat in their hole, Only to be withered away like a crooked soul. Into the air I streamed, Up into the atmosphere it seemed. Farther from home, I drift into a black roam. Spacious enough to be alone, I have found my tone. I've finally known myself, To fit perfectly in this akward shelf. I was a misfit, Too ignorant too quit it. Played like a puppet, By the wealthy culprit. Justice is my unruly mission, And they'll take watch of my disturbed exhibition.
I stumbled upon this bit, written by me years ago when I first started writing poetry. It's filled with a a bunch of nonsense that I wrote when feeling whatever emotion I felt at the time. Despite the middling quality, I thought it would be amusing to share whatever teenage, emotional frustration I had undergone.