Albums, collections of songs,
A collection of words
brought together
to right, wrongs
or just to hurt
they're there forever.

Somewhere.

Old recordings
on vinyl
or hand written on papers.
New recordings
still on vinyl
but more objected to haters.

To be

easily accessed
and heard by everyone
fans or not,
torn to shreds
when criticised, a song
is unappreciated for what

amount of effort

the artist went through
to create something new
and original
just for you,
for your ears. To view,
to be a signal.

That originality

isn't dead
or dying
or even injured
but instead
living
to be heard

by millions around the world.

She finishes writing the test
Thankful her anxious brain can rest

But the test isn't actually done,
As students discuss the answers to number one.

They compare solutions,
go over the questions they found tough,
The girl wishes she could plug her ears,
But the students haven't had enough.

As they talk they realize they got some wrong,
But take it lightly in stride,
They do not know that if the girl joined in,
it'd crush her soul and pride.

Because it starts the criticism rolling,
Bashes her left and right,
"How could you get such an easy question wrong?
You're anything but bright"

"Try harder next time,
come on, I'm sure you can do better.
You need to do well, idiot,
A is the golden letter"

Others wonder why she doesn't join in
On the post-test debates,
If only they knew the anxiety and sadness it brought her,
Her mind, how it self-berates.

The girl is working to quiet the noise,
To silence the negative notions,
But until then don't discuss too much in her presence,
Step by step, she's setting positivity in motion.

These moments always bring her dread
For they arouse the negativity in her head.

To most kids, they sit and anxiously wait,
While she awaits her most feared fate

Papers passed about by the teacher.
Students scramble to get their grade.
She sits there, wishing the moment would pass.
Wishing she could simply fade.

The verdict's in, the marks are out,
Kids discuss and compare.
They ask her what she got,
She wishes she were anywhere but there.

She sneaks a peak at the paper,
Immediate thoughts cloud her brain
Students desperately want to know,
She braces for the impending pain.

"I beat her, I beat her!"
A few students cry
Others beam at their amazing feat.
As the girl feels her insides die.

"You're an idiot, how could you get those wrong?"
The mockery arises in her head.
She hates herself more than you'll ever know,
A few of her tears are painfully shed.

Her faults are pointed out by others,
As they celebrate their victory,
And her internal demons hiss at her,
From criticism, she is never free.

These instances may seem short-lived,
The pain will surely pass,
But these cracks in her self confidence
Caused it to shatter into broken glass.

Many of my poems are snarky
And I know it.
Some things make me ******
And I show it.

Some people are beneath contempt
Puff out their chests, think they’re exempt
But at the bottom of it all, they’re ****.
They count on people at large to be dumb
And deaf and blind to their ugly tricks.
People give up thinking they can fix
The atrocities perpetrated on society.
They get physically sick at the impropriety
And villainy these criminals get by with;
Two tongues in each mouth politicians lie with.

Many of my poems are painful
And I know it.
Some things make me disdainful
And I show it.

I’d perhaps take up haiku poems or calligraphy
If there wasn’t so much ignominy around me.
My trusted representatives are lying to me
And are doing so daily with total impunity.
It’s disgusting and even more, its treason.
And most of the time, they have no reason
Other than rampant compulsions and greed.
So, what better excuse would they need
To betray every concept they claim to believe?
Is that why there’s never going to be a reprieve?

Many of my poems are political
And I know it.
Some things make me analytical
And I show it.

It works because we reward tinhorn crooks
And let them alter all our history books
To either pretend they never existed
Or to act like they ever have resisted
Any momentum to remove the rights
Of those who were not born white
Or rich, or straight, or Republican
Then, the next Congress starts again.
I’ll stop being a ***** about all this
When they stop offering their *** for me to kiss.

Many of my poems are snarky
And I know it.
Some things make me ******
And I show it.

At the end of the day, they will look for the worst version of you.
Good actions will be overlooked, and you will be taken for granted.
They will dig your soul for whatever it is they consider as dirt.
They will make you feel as if there is something wrong with you.
And you—you ask yourself what should be done.

You have not one, but two options.
Either you fight and go against the current,
Or become a slave of their judgments.

If you fight, expect that there will be more coming;
every stench of your soul will be revealed
and they will not stop
until they have dragged you down

And if you become a slave of their judgments,
you might think you are in peace;
But contrary to this, you have a bigger enemy.
Yourself.