I want to write poetry
But
What am I to write about?

I could tell you about
The horse I had at 3
That my parents sold at 4,

Or the Taco Bell up the street
That was closed
For selling drugs out the back window,

Or even the time
That my dad crushed an ant
Into our old cement patio
And tears sprang to my eyes because
I was sure that the ant had a family somewhere
Who would expect him home any minute.

But those aren’t very pleasant things
And I’m not able to make rhymes,

So I am forced to face the truth
That maybe
I am not a very pleasant person.

I would give you everything,
yes, every piece of me,
and wish to give you more.
I wish I could describe it to you,
the amount of love I feel.
Maybe quantify it, so
we can visualize it.
Is it a million, a hundred million?
Maybe infinity and more.
The word "love" is just not strong
enough. So how do I tell you?
Adoration, and passion, and lustfulness,
and fondness. All of these words, no,
none of them are powerful enough.
So maybe my own word is
an order, for who is to say
I cannot?
Lishvilnesh!
Hesmelah!
Bakeldohm!
I cannot describe the amount
of love I have for you, so
it must be lishvilnesh! I'm
overcome by hesmelah! I cannot
contain the bakeldohm!
Ah, but it is not so easy,
for it would take hundreds of years to
attach such weight to a word, and
infinitely many more
to attach my feelings
for you.

Her name was Hannah and I loved her blonde hair
Tender young woman on the streets, price was fair
Meeting at the corner of Forest Road, he said she'd know where
Marvin hooked me up, my training was complete
Time to get back on the horse, really find my feet
She jumped in my car, I smelt a perfume so sweet
She flashed me a smile and wished I was her
At this point I didn't know what was to occur
To be in this girl's skin is what I would prefer
We took a room at the seedy hotel in town
Closing the door, I turn around, she sat down
She took off my jeans, all she had was a frown
I told her I knew her Daddy and he treated me real mean
She got up to go, so I struck her face, it came keen
Told her I was his slave from the age of eighteen
The smirk on her face filled me with manly rage
Again she tried to leave, so I truly blew my gauge
A swift punch took her down, bruised her rib cage
I tore into her **** uniform and took what was mine
Begging me to stop but it was already too late to decline
I used her body in masculine rage, treated her like swine
And when I was done I left her crying on the bed as I left
I just took something from her but it didn't feel like theft
I got what I wanted so I didn't think of how she was bereft
Said to her as I left that if she told Marvin, she would die
She lay crying on the bed, so there was no word of reply
Quickly left the seedy hotel and look up at the night sky
Marvin took my masculinity so I took it out on his girl
What do I have to lose, I've got nothing in this world
He'll look for me soon, revenge in my mind, time to give it a whirl

The thought that you can perceive perfection is one of a fool.
You cannot become perfect, nor can you see perfection manifested.
Yet it is a fools errand to not try to be better than what you see as best.
You can't expect to be seen as perfect to anyone but yourself.
Simply because if you can accept yourself, then you will often be denied by others as well.
If you can't accept yourself, then try to become more.
If you can't achieve what you want, get help.
Not enough people understand the means to achieve their aspirations, but others know how to achieve someone else's goal.
If someone hails you as perfect, then you simply share the same views.
If someone degrades you for irrelevant flaws, then they hold a different standard.
Perfection is only a concept created by fools, and people who don't understand the cruelty in the actions of others.
Whoever thinks of themselves as perfect hasn't met one greater than them.
In this world, the closest thing that I can fathom to be synonymous with perfection, is knowing that you are imperfect, but being content with who you are.

There are times when I sing to myself.
A deep bass voice ringing throughout my house is calming to me.
I don't know if it is my voice, or the action that relieves me, but whether I am happy, or sad something about just being able to sing makes it better.
I just know that some nights when I am alone as I usually am, I think of how great a life using my voice would be.
Lying awake in teenage insomnia, I can't help but feel like my voice could send a message.
I could let the message ring out, or I could simply whisper it to those who would listen.
I could be the voice of our generation, or the creator of the message the voice delivers.
I can't decide if I want to be known for my actions, or if my actions should be the invisible cause of peace.
Furthermore, people could spite my actions, and even if their reasoning for disliking me is bad I just want to make everyone happy.
I request an impossibility out of my voice, but if it is possible I can't see the right course of action to achieve it.
If I went mute one day, is there ever proof I had a voice?
In what way could I immortalize what makes me happy, and even if I can could it effect someone?
I want to live happily every day able to sing for people, and help people who need it.
I want my voice to be heard, but should I speak loudly or quietly?
I need to know before I run out of time to choose, and I lose the ability to feel again.

Tonight my past is creeping on my thoughts.
Countless days in a house by myself.
Memories of the schizophrenia I had when I was younger.
I call what I had schizophrenia, because I am not sure my imagination was twisted enough to have it insult me to the point of giving me nightmares.
I remember all of the times that I left people behind when I moved.
I recall all of the people I have ignored.
I take all of this into my head, and I just wish that I was a better person.
I do what I can for people, but I rarely let anyone get close to me in life.
I don't compliment people without seeing actions worthy of recognition.
I don't have any remorse for people when I think they deserve something.
I just lay down now, and I wish I could be someone's teddy bear.
I just wish that I could be valued with secrets, held often, and come to for comfort.
It sounds like a life I could live well.
Sure after they grew up they would probably move on, but at least I would have helped them.
Some people even keep their teddy bears for as long as they can.
So maybe I could have someone to be around.