doubt

What's good poetry anyways. If I don't write the way my english teacher likes, does that mean the feelings that I'm trying to proclaim are untruthful, forgotten, erased, and invalid?

Swollen

Swollen, swollen, swollen
Those lumps of tissue that grow like soft mounds
of painful clumps of yeast
Bruise here, scratch there
and a lovely clump of yellow blooming into that
wonderful red right here

And of course there is a method and rhyme  to judging my work. Of course.

I suck at poems, and yet I die, everytime.

I want me to be better.

I want want want want want want want not to work.

Lazeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

lazeee girl
don't expect success if your glands don't over process with your sweat.