I type when I write,
so as much as I may add,
I'm no classic, no purist,
in fact I'm following a fad
as I work with technology
in familiarity? Eh, just a tad
I'm simply a romantic
with an ego to be had.

I demand my words spoken,
because for lights I'm a s***
w****ish words like a token
from naiveté’s rut.
So I'll call myself "poet"
when I'm a literary mutt
Introduction? Bespoke it.
All other words? I broke it.
And henceforth, I… hoke- poke, co..

Ah, there's goes my rhythm.
a sliver of hithers and thithers
which withers the tethers
of unrestful calm letters
so they may build me a leash
on the hodge-podge pastiche
that they call poetry.

I act like I have a lease on life,
when I'm young
barely tasted a bite
of this era of dying art.
But still I see
Love seems a sea of blight
to the heart of this mockery
called living.
Unright is it made to be
to be so shocked, you see,
for my cliches aren't hypocrisy
they're just all that is left of me.

So I’ll say all these words,
then say them thrice more,
because they deserve to be said
even though said before
by a million other persons
Or maybe a bit less,
I'm hoping to break through
with a little finesse
and leave a slight bit of impact
of the few brain cells left in tact
of the generation I'm growing into.
So maybe I'll compact a message
and shout that I'm showing here to
be not a prodigy,
but a simple voice that believes
that there's more than just sodomy
and violence, or how to be silent.

And for love I will cry that
I'm not just a sheep,
nor flesh in a heap
working like robot.
But IN love I'll sigh that
no matter what leaps
or benefits that I reap
I’ll make less than a small dot
of ink on the brink of shrinking
humanity.
Gah, how vain I must be to complain
of small forwards. It still is a stain-
one that can be remembered
if gently tendered
through the rough storms of
unlit surrender.

An offender of ears
lacking of years,
that's all that I'll seem to you.
A rambler of peruses
delved into abuses
and a vexation that needs to shooed.
But not much is needed,
for my words have been seeded
Well, I could just be conceited,
but I know there is someone.
who'll take my fool's dream
of cleansing the unclean
surreptitiously obscene
lack of focus
in THIS youth.

I've not said much,
just been uncouth
about my clear seen pretension.
but in anger is there retention,
so hate me if you will,
but baiting is a skill
a speaker must master.

Annoyed you? I must have.
Decoyed jewels? I lust that.
Because I'm not revolutionary
nor looking for evolutionary
increments of growth.
Just looking to rid a disservice I loathe.
So I'm closing this rant
through shallow-breathed pants
and say only once more, I repeat:
Disregard what you live in
Make creativity unforbidden.
for if we keep taking what's given
you'll have to keep dealing with dirtbags like me.