u want more emotion, maybe im just tourchered to the point im just going through the motions praying out there i find a potion to let me relax, maybe stop the wise cracks about how im fat or how minimal the cash is i stack. or maybe the fact when i cut open my vain i just see black no crimson blood just black oozing from the cracks as if my tanned skin is a stone statue starting to crumble under the weight of self loathing. the fact of deep down id rather be a better person but it bugs me i cant afford the fancy clothing, even in our society how we hype up to the idea then it comes to play and no one seems to stay like whatever happened to kony we live amungst phoneys saying their better only to better their pride and maybe to impress a futer bride collecting money only green in there eyes envious of those that accumulate wealth but seem to be blind to those who have nothing pushin it off to someone who has more to give now tell me again wat gives u a greater right to live over the young women even children forced into *** but u need to spend ur check on a fancy rolex because ur life is complex now im not saying im better though i have been gifted with my life but in my heart i still cry everynight because were on borrowed time ive seen people distroy themselves in hate a freind in grade 9 became addicted to******* now shooting ****** in his vein his leather jacked stained skin n bones calling on the phone for his next fix my mom with her slit wrists pretending i dont exist  now is that enough emotion for u after all im still just a kid.

The desolation of artistic expression -
virtue signaling, mood pieces -
cheapens the message.
Daily I am deceived by what I read.
I thought not that I would struggle
finding comfort and truth in the house of poetry;
a house we all have had a hand in building.
Indeed, poetry is, at its foundation,
patient and playful, and honest
and yet, I find nothing more than disingenuity
creeping beneath the eaves,
pseudo-poets with no better avocations,
no real love for the craft.
It is a shame, in fact,
that one's concentration could be
so fixed upon the ego
that the heart lacks any good judgement.
Though, I suppose, every generation
has its fools, its phoneys.
Yes and even now, as I toil in my home,
persistent and earnest,
I can hear a window break,
see shingles strewn about the lawn.