Born, I wasn't made for the riches,
They've forgotten my mother's stitches.
Borne to a home built by exiguity,
Hope to stay in for a brevity.
At a loss of hope I pondered:
What much is there to live for, I wondered.
But vengeance gathers in a bunch,
So I opened every door of ****** nonesuch.
Crawled in and sat in their hole,
Only to be withered away like a crooked soul.
Into the air I streamed,
Up into the atmosphere it seemed.
Farther from home,
I drift into a black roam.
Spacious enough to be alone,
I have found my tone.
I've finally known myself,
To fit perfectly in this akward shelf.
I was a misfit,
Too ignorant too quit it.
Played like a puppet,
By the wealthy culprit.
Justice is my unruly mission,
And they'll take watch of my disturbed exhibition.
I stumbled upon this bit, written by me years ago when I first started writing poetry. It's filled with a a bunch of nonsense that I wrote when feeling whatever emotion I felt at the time. Despite the middling quality, I thought it would be amusing to share whatever teenage, emotional frustration I had undergone.