Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?

My dream was just like my everyday
walking about
watching my nieces play

Perfectly aligned with reality
in the restroom I gaze into a mirror
viewing myself with perfect clarity

Lifeless eyes
with redish-blue bags underneath them
Hair that had been cut all off
and dyed to resemble a rotten plum

My skin as pale as can be
Is this how I see myself?
...or is this how others see me?

She sits on her bed wondering if she will ever get better.
Ever BE better.
She wonders if her choices and emotions are her fault
Or a product of something deeper.
She stares at herself in the mirror
and wonders
If her tired eyes were caused by the torrent of tears, or instead, if they were caused by life's tolls.
But,
What she doesn't know,
Is that the only person who sees her in this way
Is herself.
She
Is only the underdog
To herself.

Cryptic dreams awaken the mind
Telling more than I want to know
Hinting at emotions undefined
The glint of rough gems to be mined

Possible rapture threatens contentment
Disturbing the balance and the flow
Turbulence enters the calm of the present
Subconscious susurrations could prove prescient

The painstakingly built façade stays intact
But the lingering dream won’t go
No use denying its deep impact
As it cajoles me to think and act

When did it become instinct to **** in my stomach when I speak
As if my words were something that needed to be contained
And my body ashamed
When did I start believing that being curvaceous
Meant I couldn't be vivacious
That I needed to hide
And lose my pride
As if my weight defined
Who I could be
And my tummy would remind
That that everyone could see
My imperfections
These are my confessions
I am self aware
I care
About others judgements
And the way that I am perceived
So I try to make adjustments
Yet I never succeed

I don't need anyones permission to go after goals I want to achieve, only thing stopping me is the excuses that I mustur looking passed the obstacles ahead of me. Brick walls blocking the path nothing to extravagant grab the right tool and chisel that sucka down into new pavement.. Stepping over the pieces I take heed of the mistakes I made and those throughout history putting two & two together hoping I'll find the cure for "The Followers" that control our societies.