You know what is excellent?
Rain.
Kissing in the rain,
Singing in the rain,
All of it is wonderful.
Beautiful.
******* gorgeous.
And I don't give a **** what you have to say.

You know what is amazing?
***.
*****, rough, sweat dripping down your back,
Eyes dilated,
Teeth clenched,
Cheating, no good ***.
It's ALL wonderful.
And I still don't give a ****.

You know what astounds me?
People.
People and their words.
Their thoughts and judgments.
Their captivity in their own personal business.
Their lack of freedom.
The fact that every **** day,
They do something annoying.
The fact that every single day,
They care a little too much,
The fact that they can't take time to indulge anymore.
Work work work, it's all just
Mother.
*******.
*******.

Live life a little more people.
You've only got one,
Make every second count.

I don't care if you get drunk at parties every night,
Or you spend your nights on Xbox live,
Maybe even playing Magic with a group of other guys.
I don't care you you're the kinda person that ***** every night,
I don't care if you are a ****** 'till you're 25.
I don't care.
Just do whatever.

Because we're all pretty much dead already.

I used to live in the real world.
I used to live in a happy place, a place where things were easy.
People mistake that for childhood,
I recognize it as simplicity.
I remember a name barely being spoken.
Hardly croaked. Callus.
The sound of a wretch who maybe had too much to drink the night before.
Or maybe she'd just been crying all day.
She told me that my house was broken.
I remember the wretched look,
The tears being held,
A face pale as the walls I grew up with.
They now would never stand again.
I remember the words,
"How are you taking this so well?"
I didn't have an answer. I didn't even have a reaction.
Always them, always slaved.
Never fear, never broken, never even stand.
Maybe I grew up too fast.
Maybe I didn't grow up at all.
But now I'm here.
Wherever this is.
I don't like it but I call it home.
I'm weak, dearest.
I wish I could tell you otherwise.
I'm not broken, I'm fragile.
I'm not crystal, but I'm clear.
I'm not dead but everyone is dying,
And all I can say is that these floorboards don't creak.

I hate poetry.
Not for the same reasons you probably do,
I don't hate it because of the massive amounts of cliché love poems,
I don't hate it because of the over-used phrase "crime of rhyme",
And I don't hate it because I have something in common with Kanye West.

I hate it because it means I have accepted who I was.
I hate it because I hate who I was.

Today I stand before you as the "Anyone who's Anyone" kindof guy.
I consider myself to be the most important person in my world.
Everything revolves around me, and I know it.
Thats not an ego talking, no, it's more who I am.
Call me an ***, but to me, you will never be more important than Thomas Strout.
I am the Mr. Right.

But once upon a time, there was a poet.
A beautiful poet who's words were poison and had looks to match.
I was in love.
But I made a mistake.
I was really alone.
I relied so much on a different universe that mine got lost in translation.
Reality broke and I blamed everything besides her and myself.
I was my own personal chaos.
It lead to a broken heart beneath bottles and blunts.

My excuse?
I had none.
I was proud of who I was.
I loved living like that,
As everyone who does should,
But it was wrong.
I went through every kind of self mutilation possible,
And then laid in a hospital for 3 days, not remembering what went wrong.

I was no longer my own personal chaos at this point.
I was chaos.

So, I hate poetry.

Am I perfect?
No.
But at least I can speak now.
But at least now, after months that have felt like years,
I know who I am.
And I have a voice of my own.

And ****, does it feel good.

You know when your a kid and you start chewing gum,
And you pull it out of your mouth and strum it like a guitar,
All giddy and such,
Just to hear your mom or dad tell you not to?
After that day you don’t do it again.
After that you put your Gum-Bass fantasy behind and move on.
But you never forget what your parents said.
You never forget them telling you not to do that.

I sat in my room one night,
A stick of Juicy Fruit in my mouth,
Not really caring about a thing.
It was late.
I pulled my gum out of my mouth again,
And I played it like a guitar.
Like a child, I sat and I put it back in my mouth and smiled to myself.
I was happy.
I don’t know why,
Maybe it was the feeling of going back to the days when I wasn’t scolded for bad grades,
But instead for all the little things.
It doesn’t really matter to me.

I was happy.
I was 8 years younger,
Playing Super Mario 64 with my brother,
Waiting for Christmas to come again.
It all came back to me,
And I cried.

Everything came back.
All the memories of people long gone,
All the hatreds I forgot,
All the friends I left behind,
All of it came like poison.
I felt the pain of the bullies fist and words,
The anger that got me into therapy,
The sadness when my cousin died from a tumor.

It hurt.
Every part of my body ached.
I wanted to curl up and wait to forget.
I wanted to cry all night at the things long gone.
I wanted to forget the times my brother hurt me.
I wanted to forget my parents separation.
I wanted to forget my pain and anger.

But I couldn’t.
I sat there and just cried.
I didn’t curl up.
I didn’t reach for a knife and watch my own blood flow.
I didn’t look for my fathers gun.
I didn’t find rope.

I moved on.
I looked at my celling,
And smiled to myself.
I haven’t lived a “good” life.
I am the middle child,
I am the dirt underneath the shoes of some.

It all makes me that much stronger.
And I couldn’t be more thankful for it.

I feel like, as a species,
If we humans sung more,
Danced more,
Wrote more,
Acted more,
Drew more,
Or even watched and appreciated someone doing those things,
This world would be a better place.

I'm not saying that we have to strive for world peace,
Anyone with common sense knows that it isn't possible.
I'm just saying we would be happier if we indulged ourselves in the little things.
Some hold the hand of God to get by,
And that's just fine,
But that doesn't work for everyone.
Some people look to drugs so they can see tomorrow a little clearer,
But some people don't want to hurt themselves like they do.
Maybe a cigarette every now and then, or a little drink.
But not something I need.
Never something I need.

Music is my drug.
Writing is my alcohol,
And all I want to do is OD.
I want to see the colours,
I want to pick up my guitar for all the right reasons.
I want to write and be seen.
I want to act and be known.
I must be an addict of my own creativity,
Because all I want is more.

I just have to sit and wonder,
Why am I one of the few?

I wish I could express myself without moving,
But now I have to pick up that pen once again.
And I have to forget about my family and friends.
I need to push the thoughts of that knife in my back aside
And wait it out.
Because when I wake up tomorrow,
I need to be a little stronger,
A little faster,
Pun on a little bit more brawn.
Grow up for a change.
Stick it like a brick in sand
And make an attempt at going unnoticed.

Let the tears run down my face,
Let my body drain of any pain
Because if it doesn't then my bloods gonna spill one more time.
And I know I can't take that.
Just throw me one more punch,
With extra black and blue on the side.
But please,
Leave the coughing up my insides for another day.
One more drop of red and I might think its over.