my poetic brilliance is nothing to boast about;
it is a curse
because the best poets
write with blood, sweat, and tears.

i hope to grow old,
someday,
and be ridiculed for my distasteful,
unwise poetry;
i won't need praise to fill a void in my heart that is meant to be youthful,
i shan't be fruitless and tired;
i will finally be happy.

penning what feels at the moment
with the limited skill with words
to release the pressure built up inside
to embrace the softness that remains....

This World...
is a traveling salesman
that doesn't know when to say when
hiding tricks up its sleeve

This World...
is an infomercial
filled with needy commercials
promising free delivery

This World...
is a picnic
that brings its own ants in
to eat a slice of the pie

This World...
is a mortician
with teeth that sharply glisten
waiting for us to die

This World...
is a New York City taxi
weaving in and out of traffic
overrating the fare

This World...
is a child that is missing
on a milk jug that is empty
with no one to care

This World...
is a train wreck
from which you can't turn your head
no matter how hard you try

This World...
is in need of a medic
with an extensive headache
right between the eyes