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It's not all that hard, it's so easy to learn,
Each and every one of these simple rules.
You see, I'm not even American,
But not even us Mexicans are such fools.

I know this language like I know myself,
I never laid hand on the shelf,
Where everyone placed their literature books,
Just to drop it for looks.

It's easy to remember,
Why can't you see,
English is so easy,
Or is it just me?

No.
That wouldn't make sense.
Spanish was my first language.
Yet I've come to know English better than my native tongue.

You're not North American, British, or Australian?
Alright whatever, I'll let it slide.
But really, born and raised here?
Come on, it's a free ride.

Deosnt it btoher you taht erevy wrod is speled rong?
Notice can't that you is order your wrong?
Proud to be an American, it isn't really saying much.
Cuz it lik jus syin I cn bearle evn speek such.

Yes, I think you're stupid, every time you spell wrong,
Because it's so easy to fix even a word that is long.
It makes me wonder wether your autocorrect's off?
Because that simple thing, knows each time that you're off.

Is it really so hard to put in that one vowel,
Or put in the consonant so your spelling's not foul.
Or correct the double-negative, you know it's not true,
It's easy to do, just proofread right through.

We all have the ability needed learn,
Yet it seems your ability's been placed in an urn.
You've got a big brain, so why don't you use it?
Trust me, I know, you shouldn't abuse it.

If you have pride in nothing else,
That's fine,
But it's good to have pride in the fact that you know,
YOUR LANGUAGE.
Be proud that you can communicate well,
Be proud that even the nerdiest of nerds can't use words you won't understand,
Be proud that you know how to use correct punctuation,
Be proud to know where "ph", "gh", "ou", "eau" and the silent "t" are used,
Be proud to know which words comes first, and which one comes last,
Be proud to know English, you can learn it all fast,
Be proud to know the art of words,
The art so many ancient cultures knew,
The ancient Japanese, and Romans, and even the French,
Yet America has forgotten how to use words.
Be proud to be a leader of the generation in the USA,
The generation that brings back knowing our own tongue,
So that foreigners who come don't know us better than us.
Be proud to know the beauty of language.
It really bothers me, it almost ****** me off, how much people seem to go out of their way to not learn their own language. People can compose great poems, but if you can't spell, or if the order's all wrong, your poem begins to lose its meaning and artistic value, it doesn't even make sense anymore.
Jenna May 2014
I stood there.
Staring.
A snow-capped peak stared back.
I became exceedingly captivated.
Captivated by the thought that he and I existed;
Existed now.
Existed here.
Existed together.

I became a shell.
A shell filled with explosive joy.
And I could no longer become underwhelmed.
Nor could I become whelmed.

I lived.


I will never believe in myself more,
Never trust in Creation more,
Never be enveloped in the stillness more
Than I did in that moment.

Glimpsing that skyline.
Staring down a mountain.
Daylight 4U2C May 2014
I get the crust and the gristle of a thistle once a missile shooting out into the sky and I cry, wonder why. Never sure what I feel for the meal of a deal and then words more like air slip the breeze in my hair, butterflies in the skies killing what kept my alive. Oh too bad, well how sad, if the songs last lines din't matter it'd harm, it'd make the soul so very mad. Here I fall, there I stand like a robot dancing to the tunes. It's demand. Hear I laugh, hear I cry. I hear the screams and feel the burn, so why? Why unsure, of what's telling me my life is so impure. Threatened heart, from the strings that wrap it, tearing it apart. Feel the clench of a bundle of what you yourself have drench and so benched. And you threw to me the horror show, I never so have thought would reckon me to be. I, to be, it's master and it's longing family, here I cry. Hear "I" cry. For I exist in heart, but never, not in mind. There I stand once again as a memory of all that I pretend. If I tried, to be real, the pieces fall apart inside. So I hide, then I quiver and I shake as 'me' is inside. I can touch to the shelter covered in the unbelieving, underachieving to be who I know I am to be. Or at least what you see. I crush the old me and start anew, though I grew. I, immortal to myself have stomped the true. And I become something greater than simple little shrew. Do not lie! For I see with one eye, the look through me. What you see is a host, not the ghost, that lives on. "Awh, look at me. I'm so strong!" Laugh along. Child there. Where? Oops, forgot to care. Now I stare, towards the end that's never ending like this script. Never ending. Twist and bending. Don't kid me, I'm no kid. I'm the body of a youth, but I am dead. I've destroyed myself, if others didn't do a perfect job. Hold up stop! I'm letting go, a bubble that will pop. It will burst, destroying me, if it doesn't **** me first. Here I stand. Hear I cry. There I go. I have died.
I don't know if I posted this before, but I don't think so.
Daylight 4U2C May 2014
"Grow up tall,
little kid,"
said grandpa Joe.
And so I did.

The watermelon grow tall too.
The sunflowers look to the sky,
keeping their chins up,
raised real high.

So maybe it's silly,
watching grass grow,
but if you never try,
how could you ever know?

So maybe it's crazy,
chanting for the rain,
but if it never comes,
how could I grow the grain?

I'd prefer to stare at clouds,
than sleep forever like a rock,
skidding by life.
Why, that would just ****!

So, if you ask me to leave this here place,
you better shove it,
before you wake up
in an unknown space,
******* with lace,
with a disfigured face,
completely full of mace,
and a strange case
of something poisonous.
rae Apr 2014
let it pour, let it pour. sometimes i don't want to be something that you don't think i am. i want to be someone with you and nice to you and be there, be there. i don't know how am i supposed to feel--when i saw your question out of the open (it didn't even say it was you but i knew) i felt like it was something i did but i did it unintentionally, i really did.
you're becoming someone more cautious (afraid but more open, guarded towards me yet longing for others) and i am afraid it was
my fault
you're obvious and you can't see that it's swirling inside of me
JoBe Arenas Apr 2014
Give me Love
I need a mother's Love
One of the basic needs is Love

The Beatles knew Love
"All you need is Love"
I sing of Love

The Creator forever gives Love
People doubt this Love
Some deny the Love

Can I demand Love?
From you, Love?
Is it hard to Love?

Love, love, Love
Makes the world.. Love
Not war, Make Love

So many kinds of Love
In the end it's nothing but Love
Any beginning ends in Love

      Love.
Love nothing but Love
Ady May 2013
If
When, if, you love me,
Don't tell me it is with your "whole" heart,
For your heart is but a mere ***** that will someday rot and decay.
Words will not be understood if all you do is talk.
Caress me, cherish me;
For a day, which will come unnoticed,
I will no longer be standing at your side.
So, how do we love if our hearts are flesh?
Where does it hurt when words are sharp and the distance long?
Not the heart but somewhere in our "heart".
When, if, you leave me, be sure to make a scar;
So we won't forget the passion and horror of this, our, love.
Alucinari Mar 2014
The bourgeoisie?
I loath them,
and I hope they buy my poems!
The critics?
They know nothing,
and I hope they hail my poems!
The intellectuals?
Dumber than pigeons,
and I hope they canonize my poems!
Unabashedly,
I'm not afraid to admit it:
I write for fame and riches,
and nothing really more.

Yes, yes, make no secret of it,
I wish only to shock you,
arouse and repulse you,
****** you,
with mindless,
gore-splattering violence,
and heart-throbbing ***,
along on every page.

****** and *****, gore, and blood,
how else are my sales to flood?
It's art for arts' sake,
or something to the effect of that,
whatever makes me edgy,
socially relevant,
to scholars postmodern,
housewives bored,
and teenagers yearning,
to read ***** words.

So keep it then in mind,
my lovely readers you,
I very much like infamy,
and piles of money too;
be sure to buy my books,
praise me,
“Fresh and new!”
So that I may hire cooks,
to save time writing verse,
the very verses you adore,
lambasting the very rich and poor.

Rampant materialism,
spiritual decay,
what else do you
*******
want me to say?
A saint of the lowly,
the offbeat too,
voicing the obscure,
and the unheard and the
blah, blah, blah,
whatever it is,
I really don't care
quite honestly,
bluntly,
I'm being true,
I write for the fame
and the riches,
not you!
Hopefully blatantly satiric. :)
Daylight 4U2C Mar 2014
I can't do this anymore.

HELP!                                                        I'm falling apart on the floor.

Sleeping has become my only score.

I've can't even cry.
                                                                      Must be strong for the poor.

I'm okay on the outside.
                                                                   I'm crashing down in the core.

Tell me "It's okay."
                                                          Let me blindly love tomorrow's day.

I want to speak,
                                                  but sometimes, there's nothing left to say.

I want to smile..
                                                    ..but no..
                                                                                               I'm not okay.
I'll never admit it.
                                                                                      I fall apart everyday.

I was heading to "Out The Window",
                                                                        but hit a *** hole on the way.

Am I even trying?
         Why am I always lying-
                                                ..on this floor..
begging,
pleading,
stressing,
for more than I have the courage                                        ..to ask for?..
comments? Give some hearts?

— The End —