What's up with our government
telling us how time and money's spent.
I work longer than 9 to 5
just to try and stay alive
Slaving away with no perks
Killing myself with endless work
No funds for flash, no time to play.
Hittin' the bricks 12 hours a day.
It's hard not to feel this rage
with this out dated minimum wage.
How about you give a shit
How many need to throw a fit
Let's trade places for a bit
And you can take these fuckin' hits
1 trill spent on the war on drugs
Only to find you are the thugs.

To the top once percent
Laughing at our torment
You misrepresent, you reinvent
It's a break of trust
with fraudulent intent

could be more

Ive run circles around,
The of right and wrong and where one should belong.
So listen closely,  truth comes in all forms
Even remotely.

You don't scare me.
You threats are empty.
Just like the promises you sell,
It's just not friendly.

So fuck off.

Power comes when you see
That when you draw fist blood
It's not me who bleeds.

I am certain that you will start to feel
That living life as you do
Slows, not stops, the truth
And truth is real.

So eat the shit that you have been wanting us to eat,
Then I'll be satisfied in knowing
This meal was something forced through your teeth.

Payback isn't always what you may have believed.
This is all you, and unfortunately you'll see.

You aren't even worth the time
Nor does your name deserve a shoutout
In this ticked off rhyme.
I don't need anybody else to fine.

Run along now, go fuck with someone else's life.

So I guess I'll let it pass.
But don't think I pity your sorry ass.
Don't think I am grateful for shit.
At the end of the day, your nothing but my bitch.

Ollie Sep 9

I'm gonna be gone someday
I can't always be here to stay
You know that
Sometimes I think I'm a fraud
Like I'm the only moderator in my life
I'm the only one that runs it and I run it with lies
And you read in disbelief with your eyes, say your goodbyes
There is no saving a fraud
And God I wish there was
Because that's what a fraud does
We lie in wait of something more
Sobbing on the kitchen floor
Because frauds can't get drinks of water without a crisis
We can't calm ourselves without falling
Into the palms of something bigger
Something different
Frauds are held in chains for crimes they didn't commit
And we're scared
Yeah, we're afraid
We may have an act but we get terrified
We just made a pact not to show it
It's like we row our boats across the stream
But it's far from gently
We are screaming along the way
The water just covers it up
We're like magicians
Our magic trick is making you believe we're okay
Tyler, you may be a goner, but I'm a fraud
And while you've got people to catch your breath
I'm just going to stop breathing
Cause I'm a fraud
And maybe that's just how you started out
But you can't count me out
Cause no one can hear my breathing, much less catch it
And it's okay to be scared
I may be young but I know that much
Right now my thoughts are out to the world
I've curled my hands into a fist
But I'm not going to throw it
I only say I can cause I'm a fraud
Dear God let me free of this place
I know I've been a disgrace but do I deserve it?
I can't control the way I feel
And I know my poems are without much zeal
But is it worth it to condemn me to this
If you love me this is a kiss with a fist
Cause I still doubt that I'll be missed
I'm a fraud
So try figuring out if that's true
Yeah, I'm a fraud
But I'm still no good without you

i wrote this one a while ago. i'm really not sure what i was thinking. i'm pretty sure the last line was about tyler. my unfortunate obsession with writing poetry about them probably needs to stop. living for poetry is living, yes indeed, but for my poetry, it's not much of a life fulfilled.
Ben Walker Aug 23

Why do I lash out?
Whipping the rest of the world with my tongue and with my fist?
Wrecking those I hold close?
Willing to change but never quite making it.

Because I'm scared.

I'm afraid of myself and of others.
Of what I'm capable of and what I'm not.
Of what I see and what I'm blinded to.
Of living too much or not at all.

I'm scared of what's inside me.
Of what resides there, laying in wait to take me away.
Or maybe there's nothing inside of me.
No reason for my pain or anger.

What scares me most of all is exposing it to the world. The truth.
I'm a fraud. I'm not strong. I'm not clever. I'm not all that.
No matter how quickly my lips will move to tell you that I am.
No matter how quickly I'll try and silence those who say that I'm not.

That's what I'm afraid of.
That I'll look inside myself and find nothing.
And that you'll do the same.

Welcome, my Fellow Americans
To the Fraudulent Financial Fuckover Fiesta!
Because YOU are the most exceptional people
In the most EXCEPTIONAL Nation, on Earth,
Only YOU are invited
To this EXCLUSIVE Party
Where you will experience the PRIVILEGE
Of being violently raped
Abused and exploited
By the Rich
The Powerful
And the Famous!

cher Jun 21

it’s all a lie, how i say i’m
a writer; i’m a fraud, and none of it is
mine. my pieces are edited over and
over, occasionally by those who’re
adequate,
intelligent,
with genuine talent,
but i’m just a fraud, a fraud with a
vocab, a fraud pretending they possess skills.


    my first real crime: i applied for a writing course-- i guess stanford didn’t see how my fiction wasn’t just me, and it was jenny, my good friend jenny who edited this piece-- made it worthy of  praise, worthy of pride, worthy of
stanford.
i remember that morning, a sunday in may, my phone waking me in vexation, and with a grudge i pick it up, reading jenny, my good friend jenny say: cher, i got in, i bloody got in, check your god damned email. now.

congratula

  holy shit, i can only internally scream, it’s
all a lie.
    i’m not who they think  am, i’m
a fraud, a really good
fraud, a fraud who
deceived not only stanford but also
       themselves, a fraud with
too much pride     so they
forced themselves to apply. i don’t deserve
any of this, at all. i faked my skills, my
     piece isn’t mine, it’s all a lie, i’m not
adequate,
intelligent,
with genuine talent,
cause i’m just a fraud, a fraud with a
vocab, a fraud pretending they possess skills.


     and another time: on the flight to san francisco, it sank in-- how i’d be stretched thin, pretending and acting and deceiving a professor, a real stanford professor, how there was no way in hell i’d be nearly as good, i was misunderstood cause i wasn’t anybody, you see, i’m just me; a sad, short, fool; like i was once again the sad and  anxious kid alone in
preschool.
then in a blur, i’m checking in, these students sitting here all assured and then there’s me, o me, about to be marked as an absentee because apparently they see me as an equal, an equal who was at the very least
adequate,
intelligent,
with genuine talent,
but i’m just a fraud, a fraud with a
vocab, a fraud pretending they possess skills.


this is insane,
i can’t stay in this house full of writing
   students, they’re almost like mutants,
writers are an absolutely crazy
lot, they’ll give me  a blood clot and
whatnot. well, maybe the expository bunch
will be alright, but that’s just a hunch. my
concern is with the creative crew,
         cause everyone knows the
            most catastrophic murders are
creative.  they know no bounds, they’ll write
whatever to the grave, their poetry so sharp
it could kill, and i know,
just from looking at them that, well,
i’m screwed, cause i’m not at all
adequate,
intelligent,
with genuine talent,
and i’m just a fraud, a fraud with a
vocab, a fraud pretending they possess skills.



     and now a paradigm: i’m in class, my first class with twelve others, and next to me, my friend jenny, my good friend jenny, sat quietly, and in my chair i’m in internal warfare-- my head reeling, face flushing, all sorts of anxious feelings. so we’re waiting for the prof, and the moment he shows up i’m about to throw up because i know i’ll make myself out to be the weakling, the pleb, the imbecile amongst the others and i feel like a criminal. matthew, the prof, gives us five minutes to write, and all i could write was a pathetic seventeen syllables, and it truly was terrible, something like:

we are born as light
and struggle not to drown in dark
but it’s all for naught

  and i clearly remember his face, that expression showing subtly that i was a disgrace when i recited that haiku, and i felt as if that that was my cue; to leave, that is, but i couldn’t. and so i sat in class for the next three hours hanging my head in shame, because i knew that i wasn’t
adequate,
intelligent,
with genuine talent,
and i’m just a fraud, a fraud with a
vocab, a fraud pretending they possess skills.

i wrote this for school and it won?? it's been made into a short film!!
it was based on a true story, i really did go to stanford and feel like a fraud

perfect porcelain exterior
up close
you are crazed like mad

@journeyofdays

Mane Omsy Mar 17

Fair to trust your covers
Trust worthy profiles, texts
Who knew the hidden tragedy
Judging a cover, the whole series
Let no troubles face till doom
This route is a little tough
Rough enough to move gently
Though I don't surrender
Buckle up even harder
Till the broken heart fixes
Its own way to empowerment
I seek revenge but I'll fail
Until then I'll have stories to tell
Lessons to spread and alert

Internet frauds are using other's profiles to cheat people and con them with easy measures. From my experience.

I'm not a poet?
I just write things down...

Imposter affliction
Emily Townsend Nov 2016

Didn’t I ever think to be authentic
collecting words, snapping photographs
exclaiming I am enamored with language and art

when honestly, I am merely a fraud
to what I love. My hands aren’t stained with ink,
my eyes aren’t trained to learn new techniques
paper is not my friend nor is a roll of film
tossing around in my bag of nonexistent records that
I actually love my hobbies.

I feel that I am not quite
an owner of my interests,
stealing passion from others and wishing
they were my own.

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