.I cryso othersdon't have to
writers blockI have writers block.I don't know when it cameOr how, I just knowThat it appearedJudging, telling meMy work was patheticPathetically awful, incapableOf making someone's bad dayTurn goodI tried riding of it of itBy telling it to go, andThat I didn't need itBut I was ignored.I tried using a friend of mine,Hate, yelling and screamingAnd abusing the block.Silly me, I forget it hasNo feelings.I try to throw it away, hopingIt gets run over,But I can never catchThe writer's block.It's safe to say... Nothing worked.Have I been defeated by thisDevastating force? Do I giveUp, and take up sports instead?No. That's not me.So I sit down in front of myComputer, and I write. I writeWonderful, pointless nonsense.The click-click-click of the keysMakes the block crumble, knowingIt's criticism has no effect.As the block erodes, it screams out one finalProtest, until it's finally gone.My computer screen is filled withGarbage words, imprinted on.Satisfying nothing,Amaz
."i have a boneto pick with you"Really?which one, andwhy is it sobad to you?
.Rhapsody queenMusic's growlchords all prowlsurrounding soundnever held groundA roar, a screama distorted dreamthe nightmare songNo right, no wrong,Music play itsonly tune, callingbeastsIt's too soon
.Torrents swayIn the chaoticair, hanging hopeErode, despairskin worn downspine and bonewhatever I lovedI loved alone.
.What we sayand what wemean are twodifferent things
."You aren't being yourself"YourselfWho's thatAnd why isShe better thanI am
.You gave me wingsThey turned to stoneYou gave me hopeI'm still aloneI followed ordersLike you told me toEndless struggleAlways more to doI've got everything;Glory, money, butI was still left emptyTell me: Now what?
.Be the beastin the monster'sclosets
Yes, I Have a PenisYes, I Have A PenisDo not assume (if I hold the door for you),that I am making a statementabout your inabilitiesto open the door for yourself.If you hold it for me,I'll say 'thankyou'.Do not assume (if I pay for the meal),that I am underestimatingyour earning capacityas a woman.If you invite me out for a meal,you're paying.Do not assume (if I defend your rights),that I am belittlingthe attempts that you have madeto defend your rights yourself.If you defend my rights,I'll consider you human.
don't write poems for fuckboys.youare not perfect.you beginmiles beneath that golden line,all sweat and sinewand broken hearts,sheets stainedwith the hungerof a hundred different girls.youare not perfect.handsomelike a fool, agraceful maelstromwhipping through thewhippoorwills andkissing birdsongdown my spine.youare not perfect.I can seethat scar on your hip,the achilles heel in yoursafeword,animalcaged and calculatingthe next best wayto rip intomy fresh meat.youare not perfect.but your skin tastes likevodka.eyes blazingobsidian, tonguemurmuring sweetnessagainst my name,you area hunterwith far too willinga prey.youare not perfect.but you carry your charismalike a thunderstorm,and you smile like you knowI am aching for the rain,and you -well, you can call me babywhenever you damn wellplease.
Rhyming in PoemsWhy do you all want to rhymeall the time?You don't need to do it,that's perfectly fine.You think it's so coolAnd it leaves poems gleaming,But it desecrates flowAnd can ruin the meaning.It's so bad to rhythm,It's like a bad dayYou wonder why you're notSleeping it away.You think it's the rootOf your writing's salvation,But we all will hate you,All parts of the nation.You think it sounds niceBut you don't even knowHow ruined the sound isHow badly it 'goes'.So the irony's over,Your poems can mend,I'll stop myself here,Before you meetYour end.
We've neglected the lessonsour generationhas stomped on the gravesof our ancient ancestor's bodiesburied deep beneath muted earth tones,and we've dug up their bonesand thrown them against cavern walls,do you hear their beckoning calls?we told youwe told youwe told you alland our generationhas sold our soul to the devilbecause the devil wears Prada, Moschino, or Coach,the devil doesn't care about thegrumbling tummies of our skeleton childrenor their parched tongues,can you hear their bones rattling like our ancestors?do you hear their echoing calls? we told youwe told youwe told you all our generation sayswe march to the beat of our own drumbut it seems we stole this drumfrom the old man at the music shopwho couldn't make enough to pay for his own skin,to cover his crumbling bonesor maybe we've built this drum from his ashes,because of what use are old men,whose bodies could have been in an antique shopis that the beat of the drum, or a whimpering call? we told you
How to love a girl who can't love herself.one. When she cries herself to sleep six out of seven nights a week you must say nothing. You must simply take her in your arms and kiss her gaunt, pale cheeks and wait for her to slumber at the sound of your heart.two. On the days where she wishes she were part of the stars, tell her no. Tell her that there are too many lights in the sky and that just one would be forgotten the moment you looked away from it. Tell her that she is perfect the way she is: completely human.three. Don't let her think about the scars that no one but her can see. If she says "I think I'm broken" smile like you know a secret and say, "No, you're mending." But do not be the one to fix her - no, she
GrowingThe friends I had,the memories we shared,the lessons we learned,the persons who cared.Words gone unsaid,the lives drifting apart,my school life ending,my true life given start.Regret growing inside,of the words left unspoken,the lives I wished to touch,my heart torn and broken.Those friends so far away,distant and grown mature,my memories beginning to fade,the life of my childhood a blur.A familiar smile,comes in to view,my eyes begin to open,thank God, it's you.
.You don't feel fastuntil they slow youdown;