Do I fall in love so easily because I enjoy writing poetry, or does a poet within my soul soar to the surface with the ease in which I fall?

Take a bow you white knights
As you blast the Academy's critics
With silent "N"'s and thinly veiled white hoods
Check your ******* privilege

Yah. Aw jeez. Blood and snow, I tell ya, scary stuff.
That Fargo's mighty rough,
And I'm guessing that's your accomplice in the wood chipper

We put our teachers on a pedestal,
Until we age, and mature, and stifle.

They wear cardigans and reading glasses,
While teaching spelling and grammar classes,

And have an impeccably insufferable wit -
A world of puns amidst the world's dark grit.

So who would think that life's next station
Would involve discussing punctuation?

And passing that, believe it far -
Sharing drinks in a grotty bar?!

But here I am amidst my friends
(Despite not knowing them at ends)

Discussing the art of lesbianism,
Islam, clowns, and feminism,

How men are pigs and life is ****,
And how innuendoes always fit,

How therapy would be depressing
(Despite depression being the issue pressing.)

Oh, how girls can dance whilst sitting down
With words, and lips, and laughs and frowns,

With obscene gestures with their hands,
And tongues and drinks, and stories grand,

By uplifting life to a higher beat -
A rhythm that can trap your feet
And click your fingers.

English language teachers don't
Dance how I imagined them to...
And yet, I'm sad when the music's through
And my memory of them
And that simple, yet brutally important night
Lingers...

I firmly believe everyone does
Something for a need,
A desire of completion,
Of fulfilment.
I write, hoping the words
Will envelope the hole.

So I spill, I bleed, I fuss,
Pouring out feelings of greed,
Of hurt and frustration,
Of love, contentment -
Plug the emptiness with words
To fix my damaged soul.

When floating on your back, all is well.
It is only when you are drowning that you start to
notice how many of your friends also can't swim.