If words were houses;
Then mine are in shambles
Windows cracked
The door hanging off creaking hinges.
Filthy youths throw rocks
Shattering holes in the rotting wood
And leaving shards of glass on the old carpet.
One day
I will crumble, with no grave.
Just a pile of adjectives, verbs, and nouns.
Left to be laughed at and scorned.
By those who speak far better than I,
In a way Wilde and Plath would admire.
Whilst mine are followed by snickering and indifference, failing to move a soul.

I know little of rhyme
Nothing of meter
My writings, barbaric
Don't express either
Part of poetry
As well as another
Someone more well-versed
In giving poems color
I use alliteration on occasion
Pauses to be dramatic
These little lacking lines I craft
Probably come off as erratic
Syllables be ******
Imagery imagined
Rhymes forced
One of the only poems I know
Is about a hearse
One that ominously rides by
Intimidating some unfortunate guy
Reminding him that he'll eventually die
Or those under the pen of Poe
Whose tales of distortion and woe
Are firmly engraved in my memory
As empty as blank verse
I sit here vexed and cursed
Trying to express my thoughts
My more artistic passion
Which just so happens
To be in a more archaic fashion
Than the others I admire and read
But I've never taken the time
To put poetry under a microscope to see
The framework that could lead the blind
Guiding and inspiring those who write poetry
And so I'm inclined, but don't really mind
Remaining forever in obscurity

we're all standing on the edge of reality,
millimeters from the precarious cliff of horrible,
beautiful truth.
the glow of our iPhones, tablets, flat screen TVs, etc
illuminating our placid faces.
ignorance is bliss, they say.
wake up!
wake up,
and turn off your alarm,
and flip on the news;
start your coffee brewer.
we depend on the technology.
we live in the the technology.
we live in a computer.
you are not real
and neither am i
but we aren't dead either.
if we can think,
we can exist,
right?