Being human is a tricky thing,
I cannot blame that I am such a ****** one on the mere fact that it is my first.

There are plenty of things I've done for the first time and not **** at.
But being fair and morally correctly was never on that list.

I can list what I **** at though.

Being too much or not enough of myself,
The endless judgment that comes with being, as if I am not doing it as a lived experience.

I cannot stomach the thought of anyone ever truly seeing me despite how much I overshare.
Regardless of how many times you tell me you care, almost no one cares enough.

I was gonna hurt someone today
But I forgave myself
so everything's okay

What the eff is up with this site?
Why is it most people on the front page can't write?
Folks just babble on and on...
Or spit out a two line poem
Which is fine if it's a two punch knockout
Instead of sounding like a grammar school dropout
And why do certain things get so many views?
I can't seem to get more than two
Post crap if you want, if that's what people write
But they should give everybody a chance on this site
So I don't write about flowers or blather on about paint
So I don't pretend to be something I ain't
We should all have a voice here, The good and the bad
The silly, the happy, the lost and the sad
So come on hellopetry, give gutter poets a try
If you'd rise just a bit, we could meet eye to eye.

I can keep it all to myself
the things you said to me
the things you did
it's mine forever
it's mine alone
the things I wish I did
the things I wish I said
I should have put a bullet
in your pretty little head
I can keep it all to myself
the things I said to you
the things I did
the things I thought
it's mine forever
it's mine alone

Instagram was a graveyard
of memories that came to pass
until
my ex shared a picture of our son
on the backseat of his car
with their hands touching
whoever "he" is
I wonder if he knows
all the nasty **** you love to do
the ****** up thoughts you keep
the thoughts that keep you
so very far away from me

Now Instagram is a nightmare
a collage of everything
that makes me sick to breathe
it's where my dreams died
and reanimated
as someone else's
and that's ok because
in a way
they are still mine forever
his and mine alone

If we ever touched again
that would be
our very own cosmic Hiroshima **** up
I wonder how many souls we'd stamp out?
I wonder how many dreams would die?
mine are at the forefront of my mind
the dreams I had of us together
as the happiest three man band
the world has never seen