I'm not that good with words,
Tends to **** my poetry,
I'm not that good with herds,
It always stopped me fitting in,
I'm not that good with birds,
Ruined attempts at ornithology,
I'd find it so absurd,
If anyone was ever impressed by me.

I've grown beyond a joke,
It's just not funny anymore,
I'm no "ordinary bloke"
I'm useless down to the very core,
I'm an egg without the yoke,
That's ended up face down on the floor,
Like I knew before we spoke,
I'm the sort of person you'd wanna ignore.

And I'm not that good with words,
I can only say the same ones over again,
I'm seen but seldom heard,
You might not even know were friends,
And though I wish it never occurred,
I'm glad to see you're on the mend,
I'm not so good with words,
So I'll leave no note on which to end.

There once was a girl who's body was strawberry red
On the television children had seen the colors other humans bled
And when someone else dies or is hurt, that is the color they shed
When the girl tried to speak, the others had fled
She lived out many years in dread
Until a doctor came to her, provided her some anti-rouge information, and she read
Then, for the procedure she plead
When she woke in the hospital bed
"It worked! This new miracle med!"
But when she left, folks on the street still stopped dead
She spoke to the doctor, to which he said
Silly girl, you'll only ever be normal in your own head

I was once a recluse
now I fit in
But I do not know
for how long
ill belong

Don't you ever praise me
for being who I'm not.

I am just a cynic.

I am just a rebel.

I am just an outcast.

And I will stay angry
at the world forever.

For the lonely,
for the loveless,
for the forgotten and overlooked,
for the discarded and trodden on,
for the neglected,
for the ignored and mocked,
for societies weeds,
for circumstantial weeds.
For you outcasts are weeds
the flowers nobody wants,
but
weeds are resilient.
They persevere where others can not.
Often mistaken for weak, but no,
weeds are strong
and tough enough to break through tonnes of concrete
and metal.
Clever enough to find growth in places
others perish in.
Adaptable to every habitat and
brave enough to exist on barren wasteland.
Weeds need only the tiniest of a chance to flourish
For the unwanted,
for the unclaimed.
You are beautiful.
You are equal to every other flower.
You are the Charlock, the Buttercup, the Clover,
the Pinapple-May-**** and so much more.
Next time you see a **** by the roadside,
or peeking out from a crack in a wall,
or between paving slabs in a busy city,
or overgrown in a garden,
or weaving through rubble and debris,
take heart
lonely ones.
You are not worthless
You are magnificent.

Beneath the bends of Barrymore
On the southwest winds she chants some more
The clouds scoot by beneath the moon
Some say she's crazy like the loon
Dressed in black she cackles back
Tossing ashes from a sack
She throws her body down
And moans and sobs into the ground
A dagger she does draw it forth
Holding it up for all its worth
She shrieks and damns her birth
And plunges it deep into her heart . . .
So ends the life of the despised young **** . . .

Now the owls come silently in
Alighting next to still warm skin
All walk around the disposed young beast
Only uttering "Who" to say the least
Then the great owl comes fluttering in
He'd be a giant if he were made of men
He collectively surveys the scene
Takes a few steps before he says a thing
"Take her body to Evermoor"
The great one orders and implores
And all the owls take to wing
Holding the remains of the breathless thing
And take her earthly shell away
And as drops of blood fell from the flow
to the earth a white rose would grow
Leaving a trail
To the land as some will say
To the sacred woods of Evermoor
Yes sacredness in evermore

I come here to be happy,
To find my place
And teach myself how to be
A true writer.

To me it seems
I try.
I try to speak,
Show myself,
Do what I am supposed to do here.
I am told to be myself,
There is no blending in.
And yet, it seems I have to.

No one cares. I cry
And they stare and walk past.
I had more support and reassurance
In the place where I was bullied and tormented
Daily.

And here,
Daily,
I am alone.
Cliques formed and I was, once again,
And outcast.