some people think about their poetry
I know many do,
to make sure the  the 3rd and 4th rhyme
to make sure all there lines sing in time
But I have no time for that
Im thousands of years old but bearly 17
so ill blurt
and ill slur
and ill cringe
and ill howl
and ill snip
and ill snap
and splurt
and curse,

I'll walk my fingers to the key board and take of their leashes,
let them run wild in the dog park of my sanity
my ramblings,
they don't need any s
                                      t
                       ­              r
                                   u
                                  c
                           ­          t
                                       u
                                          r
                   ­                          e, nor do my sentences need to make sense
why would I conform To YOUR insanity
when I have my own band brewing like a bathtub bomb
Nothing I say needs to work as hard as my hands do
nothing I need to do should feel as heavy as the souls i carry in my
broken-strapped-bad-backed-back-pack
my alliteration literally doesn't need to alliterate its meaning
and I'm so Tired of Ideas being steam pressed into my head by the maid
that runs this mad house
you'll need to use your hands to eat this poem , I've turned the cutlery
into toy soldiers and their currently occupied in overseas service
so dig into my mind
ill open the front door for you just please remember before you
scoop out my brain
w
  a
   s
    h

       y
         o
           u
             r

                 h
                   a
                     n
                       d
                           s
    
*LG