So what if I use simple words?
So what if I use cliche scenarios?
So what if I do not rhyme?
So what if my metaphors are lame?
So what if my stories are incoherent?
So what if my thoughts are obscure?
So what if I prefer free verse than iambic pentameters?


I write to express,
not to impress
So please, mind your own style.

Maybe it’s the fact that it’s 4:03am
but the ghosts of her past are catching up again.
She wants to forgive herself for the mistakes that she’s made,
but she’s her own worst critic and she thinks of all those she may have betrayed.
Tonight her sadness is her blanket and guilt is her insomnia keeping her awake,
and her tears are drowning her; she’s breaking down, there is unfortunately no mistake.

Raised on instant gratification
rewarded for *******  
spread out on our screens
society based on ratings

Like bad movie critics,
we send mixed signals to artists
confuse our creatives
and give pleasure to mediocracy

We’re old souls
in new bodies with prosthetic limbs of plastic and glass
extensions of our memories and minds
we’ve built a reliance on them

One day when the sky cracks in half
satellites will fall from space
we will all be crushed by
The fruits of our progress
killing us slow.

So we're all free, eh? If you start thinking outside the box,
Going against societies grain, then you are snuffed out,
Never heard from again. You can "whine and moan" all you want,
But you'll soon be cancelled out, bad manners are a fine reason
To throw you into the frenzied crowd.

Freedumbs indeed

Your days of voicing your thoughts are through, they've "solved
Everything" by letting laws even go into motion that simple sanity
Can disprove. These laws they always pass, your voice is never heard,
Democracy manifest's evil will soon turn your life over to the birds.

When looking at yourself in the mirror,
Do you see yourself,
Or someone you hate?
Because artist are their worst critics,
You are your most judgmental viewer.
You are the person,
Who most commonly puts yourself down.
You are the person,
Who, when faced with
An open door of possibility,
Slams it in your own face,
Simply because you don't think you can succeed.
And how do I know these things?
Because someone had to tell me
The same exact thing.

Embrace your glorious dreams,
For they point to burst your bubble

Dear self I write for you. Are you pleased?
Dear followers I write for you. Are you pleased?
Dear haters I tried so much for you. Are you pleased?
Dear critics I always think of you. Are you pleased?

Dear self you gain followers again. Are you pleased?
Dear followers can't you find a single fault? Are you pleased?
Dear haters I just check my spelling word for word.  Are you pleased?
Dear critics I read everything you said. I am careful now. Are you pleased?

Spitting occult lyrics to snow confusions.
I being able to slow my own notions,
Am called the Conformist.
Am not crazy. See my brain?
I swear am just eccentric.
New blessings and abilities become insanity,
Look, this is just an overflow of positivity,
Still, saying am crazy, wont back me down,,
Am just eccentrically gifted by himself different.
Why not for the sake of being admit uniqueness?
Cant change who am made, to this admit pleasing.
A poet I am, not a writer, to me commit ceasing.
Why are my unique thoughts referred 'twisted?
Omit that **** and know eccentric means gifted.

Unkind critics would say that poetry is a waste of time! It is garbage and predictable and that anyone could jump in and write those words without much effort.