I no longer have all of my
soul.
Shards lost and stolen so long ago,
by monsters and men,
both great and small,
have left me with hardly enough love to spare.

I no longer have all of my
mind.
Thoughts fading and forgotten with time,
as others became,
both great and small,
have left me wishing for the past to return.

I no longer have all of my
heart.
Fragments given and never returned,
for unjust causes,
both great and small,
have left me regretting more than I can bear.

My Heart, Mind, and Soul
are missing many parts, but
you can have what's left.

I'm not a poet
I'm a self proclaimed genius with a pen
with thoughts running through my head
like gazelles in the plains of Africa
and I'm just waiting for a lion
to come swallow them up
and finally give me a good
idea
a good idea that rests on your
mouth like a Listerine patch
and comes out in a cool minty breath
a good idea that is so
easily shared amongst the masses
and is of the ability to make them
cry
laugh
smile
think
but how can I make them think
when I can't even think of a good
idea
besides, who is this 'them'
that I'm trying to please?
and how can I please 'them'?
with a notebook full of
scribbled out sentences
and torn out pages
both results of my rage
and yes, I write a lot about writers block
because writers block is so evident to me
and I see a whole lot of words
like butterflies in a field
and I'm without a net to catch them
and I just stand there staring
wishing I could piece them all together
but, if I write about writers block often
then is writers block something to write about
therefore I don't have writers block?
I don't know
I'm not a poet
I'm just a teenagers with writers block
just trying to catch butterflies

-Slang

Oh look,
There you go again,
Worrying about
All kinds of ****.

You can't do
Anything
You know

I know but,
But...

It's dangerous
He'd hurt her
But she doesn't want you to hurt
He's right, don't want to
Hurt her now do you
You know why I can't!
But...
*Come on, come on...



Oh, who to bring out?

This math, I don't need.
This history, I don't need.
I want my life to center in art, writing,
Literature.
I read, I write,
And I capture the word in one precise moment that will never be seen again.
A lost time.
In one snapshot.
I hate these numbers.
And I hate the history that has corroded our world.

I want something else.
I don't need this place.

I had somewhere I wanted to go.
I would fit there.
But I can't.

Right now, music would help.
Melting into it and draining the world of its color.
Black and white.
No more thoughts, just the beat.
Other people's words.
And just noise.
No more thinking.

I haven't been able to concentrate on any of my work.
I got everything wrong.
It is easy!!!
And it was all wrong!!!

What the hell is happening to me?
Everything in my life is suffering.
My work,
My mind.
I can hardly meditate anymore because I am too crowded
With this **** in my mind that I wanted to forget.

I am reliving it.

I wanted to avoid this, but I needed people to know. I needed to
Get it out!
That's why I wrote that stupid ******* poem.
But then she found it and now
My life is a living hell.

Just stop it. Please.