I miss the beautiful parts of you
Tender moments
And fresh air breaths
But you’ve got ugly parts, too
Angry, mean, and lots of mess
I can’t have one without the other
It’s just who you are
Uglier than beautiful
Unkind words bashing
In my skull
Pushing away against the pull
You can’t be what you are not
And I cannot be blind
I refuse to go through
Thickets of ugliness
To find a tiny field of kind

All the effort I put in
But he don’t owe me anything
This must mean I’m not a stalker
I’m just an over-talker
My crazy is kept mostly at bay
But that’s probably something
All stalkers say

Poetry is honesty
Dipped in
Chocolate
Or poo
Depending on the poet’s mood

Is it passion
Or insanity
Are the two
Really one
And the same
Separated by success
Insanity if you lose the game
And passion if you win
Even if you’re obsessed
Encouraged and egged on
Making money
There’s no need to rest
Try your best
They say
But that’s really a lie
Depending upon what you try
Some are the best alcoholics
You ever did see
The drinker feels very passionate
About his insanity
Some are the best in business
That means they’ve achieved
Permissible insanity
They call passion
But really
It’s all the same to me

I have no idea
Which ideas you have
Nor do I want to hear
(****, man!  Nothing rhymes with have)
And this is relevant to me and you
We do not rhyme
And you must know that to be true

Failure is certainly an option
In fact, it’s probably how it will be
If I ever admit
I’ll no longer compete
As long as I keep trying
I haven’t really lost
And so
Here I am
Not winning like a boss

I want to know me
But how can that be?
My mind is my only knowing tool
And it is capable of delusion
I want to believe
I’m good and trustworthy
But my eyes see
Grey areas and excuses
Slanted favorably
Towards me