Poetry Is Not Our Forte:
It’s Just Our Means Of Sinning,
But It’s Too Our Means Of Atoning
For Even Sinning In The Beginning

When I Was Littler I Walked Around Blind
To The Color Of My Skin…
It Wasn’t Until I Got Sunburned
That I Realized…
Not Just How Dark My Skin Was,
But How Dark Everyone Else Is Too

I Am Much A Picky Plant
And I Don’t Like You.
I Shall Not Be Nice To Thee-
No I Won’t Review…
If You Were To Hurt And Moan-
Regards But I’ve No Aid.
I’d Gladly Dry My Stickly Pricks
For Rain On Your Parade.

Caught Up In Your Barbie Dolls;
You Had No Eyes To Spare.
I Sat In Mud And Flamed My Dog-
Just Burning Puppy Hair.

A Little Mind So Full Of Hope
Should Not Be Cast Aside;
For When It Grows- There Is No Doubt
You Won’t Have Time To Hide.

To Hang Would Be Such Idiocy.
There’s Glamour In Old Age.
There’s Right To Hate The Vibrant Youth;
You’ve Right To Curse And Rage.
To Vomit From A Bitter Sweet-
Would Be Just Ludacris.
Why Would One But Swallow
Liquid, Kin To Fishy Piss? !
To Slit Would Be An Awful Way;
As Slow As Deserts’ Rain.
Let’s Not Forget The Sapping
Of All Your Blood From Every Vein…
Last, To Jump Would Just Be Sad-
For All Throughout This Living,
You Could Not Find The Words To Tell
Of How Their Words Were Killing.