Someone
has robbed me yesterday,
has stolen my dream
of living in a world
where nothing is fake.

And I can see him,
he is everywhere,
all over the papers,
on the Internet.

I recognize
his innocent face.

The only thing I do well is leave before I’m left,
I’m a victim of theft in every sense of the word,
Consequently developed a cyclical sense of self defense,
Where I break my own heart and force everyone I know and love
to watch, and taking notes and noting cues so they can learn to do it too,
I find it to be easier to let others down first so they don’t get the chance to ask questions
I don’t know the answers to, questions I deny and refuse.
Why do you do what you do, when so many people love you?
I told myself I would not do this to you, and I did.
I did.
I’m sure I could take it back if I tried hard enough,
But I’m not sure I’m worth the effort you put in,
I’m bound to do it again and it’s that ******* self defense,
I use as an excuse to ruin everything around me that usually blooms,
I told myself I wouldn’t, but I did it to you.
I tried to hide it behind your apathy and how it drove me crazy
To watch sunsets hit your eyes and fade away like they were never there
In the first place but I did not know you were soaking them up to reimagine later
When you felt you had no other way to feel okay again, and warm again,
I took your apathy for devolution and I painted you a thief and I wanted my soul back,
But I had latched it onto yours, like I always say I’ll never do,
But I did to you.
The only thing I do well is leave before I’m left,
I’m the reason for the hole in my own chest,
I did it to protect you from everything I think I’m not,
I never wanted to hurt you so I had to leave before I could,
The only thing I do well is leave before I’m left,
You never showed any interest in going away,
But I made sure to do it myself so I did not have to force you to stay someday.

due to a lack of talent
in the writing sphere
a plagiarist will see fit
to pinch other poet's gear

brilliance not present
on the nib of the pen
hence a copyist will purloin
every now and then

a rich source of poetry
is tapped into online
as if robbing the golden nuggets
from a Colorado mine

their coda reads like
this let's nick a stanza
stowing the best *****
for a thieving bonanza

without any conscience
the reproducer does steal
making much of other's works
which are so ideal

You drive me to insanity
Not the good kind
The kind that runs through your veins
Until all that's left are the scrappy remains
Of what once were rational thoughts
You've committed a horrid crime of theft
Now there's nothing left
But scrappy remains
And insanity Running through my veins.