I'm not like those superficial teens
pretending that they're kings and queens
I'm the one living on dreams
and pretending to be unseen

To let people run over me
I have a tendency,
I'm a doormat off sorts
With bristles that are coarse
And the personality to match,
What catch.

Flabbergasted and betwixt,
At the fairy's cascading figure,
Fixed between the man's fingers,
Like a burning cigar,
In western sunshine,
Falling like toppled coloration,
Of lumberjack flapjack,
Hit the road Jack,
And Jill,
To copper,
Whatever they want,
Without a fuss.

This is for you lame poets

for those who think they can write

but aren't trying and they know it

Maybe if they used a pen right

The ink, would, in turn, show it

Scribble lines were written for pure hype

The Opposite of blurred is focused

The passion unveiled by this action is real

Massive of accents appeal, drastic yet passively chill

Why is your wackness alive and steadily actively well?

Are your points derived from a skill?

You're as dull as the night without lights or some thrill

Pick up a quill then ignite likes its hell

Shuffle your words, in return make a deal

Lies from the truth, I can easily tell

I sit in a booth, then I write what I feel

That feeling of feeling that moment of falling, emotions are heavy and heavy is frolicking

That was a lie....I hope you are following

There's a doubt in my mind, you aren't reading this properly

Do not get board...then just GO like monopoly

Maybe if I put a few words down, you will rate it

There are poets who show it...yet are still underrated

A sea full of story's that have been negated

I write what I feel and I will not be waiting

These words of chemistry clutch captivation

Winds of auroras spark smart illustrations

Verbal wasteland I recycle the sanitation

My heart pumps to fuel the blood of imagination

Devour all who find word-puzzles an aggravation

I take inspiration from various locations,then stitch words to combine these places

Now look what has happened

An arsenal of words to engage in action

Here's a hint of wordplay with a dash of passion

lyrical disaster for the eyes of the masses

Simply dedicated to the three-lined poet has bins

i would never admit this out loud
but he kind of makes me sad
the way i might feel bad for an ugly animal
how lowly a life you must've had
to wear that dreadful hat
"Make America Great Again"
short, silly little man!
why are you the way that you are
your face seems soft like a baby
but you ****** with my best friend's heart!
and she may forgive you
but i definitely won't

once I knew the lust the pain
  to not hold you again,
you spin my mind into what might be
  then stand aside and pretend it was not for me.
is it someone else who occupies your mind.
  The lustful moments we shared, are they now not for me.
The games of want, then wait and see are so hard to take.
  I am blinded by your messages of love, then at the end of the day
you say you have no time for me.
  What is to come, I cannot foresee, are you tired of me?

The long passionate kisses we share, then unbeknownst to me, you turn a loving moment into an argument with no care.
How am I to fare, through this crazy mirage.
  Am I so weak, that I cannot see that I am no longer your muse.
You have found someone else, and I am hanging on to nothing but a dream.  A dream of a wonderful life, of passionate love making and utter acceptance of you and me.
  What is to come, I cannot foresee, are you tired of me, or am I so lame, so ashamed to keep hanging on to what might be...

Nobody seems to like my poems
although I fill them with the pain that
circulates from my head to my toes.
Expressing emotion is so hard to do
yet people expect that it's a simple trick
a thought come to mind, either a hit or a miss.
But it's so much more you see, the horrors
locked away in the depths of your soul
written down on a page for the public to see,
a way to vent those nights you spent in the
dark. What's the point of creativity if it cannot
be shared, if those around you don't find meaning from
all the time that you spend, hidden away behind a screen
broken down and typing the thoughts you have stored for
years. Though this poem might rhyme little, I hope that
you see that I'm just a girl behind a computer screen, hoping
to find someone like me.