i think about those who'd stand around
my filthy mound,
and how important i wouldn't be
to help decide weather i should kill
myself.
i don't know what i think
-only that i care all about how i look
to myself
through your eyes when i think it.
i'm not even good at being
a narcissist.
self-made mishap(py).
my anti-drug
is my last overdosey-doe;
my future has trouble breathing
because i can't move
past;
i snort between the lines
because my sinuses are illiterate,
like the rest of the world
while i'm reading palms
hidden in my sweaty pockets-
i'll scapegoat
an inanimate object
until the death of me
-which could be
your view of what i think
i should do
right
this
very
moment.
my poem is the eulogy
of itself.
i didn't write this,
i wrote the version you hated
because i liked it
better,
when you hadn't read it.
these words are plainly said,
the most complex way to walk around
myself
without let any of you
know.
so i'll keep the poems you hate
in this state;
i'll never leave
because i claim to be agoraphobic
from my car window..
because its easier than admitting i'm
afraid.
my relationships all fail
-because i only trust wo(me)n,
and s(he)'s a liar.
my hips have an autopilot,
that works horribly with my kamikaze hands
-that crash themselves into your body
when all i really wanted,
is just to hold
your
thoughts.
i'm a slut, because you're a bigger slut.
'you're not that beautiful,'
is what my favorite musicians
tell me to think;
there's a line that follows that,
but i think i like that part best
-when it
excuses your perfection
as hideous,
simply because it's not as ugly as mine.
that, who is different
is a freak;
in this case ugly by way
of not originally being as grotesque
as my own
personality.
but,
i credit this ugly
to the wrong Brooklyn,
Maine.
i found a rust snared swing set
in Brooklyn's tetanus
gun-shot
to the back of my
peddling,
i still use to swing as close to the sky as i can,
before i realize i'll never reach..
just to keep my optimism
in check.
just k(no)w
that every thing i didn't do
isn't ever my own fault
when you're still there to watch
me undo its doing
and give me the peace of mine
of your piece of mind.
i know i'm:
an asshole
complicated
self absorbed
mature
immature
SO sweat
sexy
hilarious
hard to understand
perfect
older
anxious
but you:
are too nice
are simple minded
only care about yourself
immature
think you're so grown up
such a bitch!
not pretty enough
too serious
don't understand!
aren't the one
are too young
are too easy going
.. and every poem i write
turns into a love story
i learned after i thought i read the ending
to myself,
because this world is out to get
you;
and you transpose all your problems on to me
-so i eat your kharma raw,
so that i never directly admit
that it was mine
in the first place.
i'm a liar,
i typically just say, poet.
and this poem,
was written for:
you
me
him
her
the world
tonight
yesterday
today, BUT
i wont admit it
tomorrow.
so when said
apologies turn into
heart attacks
and i blame you for writing
this suicide note
with my forged signature
state of mind,
in the footnotes of my stationary
denial
remember,
this was all tru
ly
whatever
you made of it.
http://www.rapbattles.com/forum/show...ay-383821.html
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