Poet.

FUCK THIS, FUCK THIS, FUCK THIS!
Who the fuck do you think you are?
Far from the person you wish,
far from the talented writer.
Wasted words carry no essence,
you need substance to lift poise.
Listen how loud your self-doubt is,
“get out of your state of mind,” she says
“I can’t,” I said. I live in my head, with this dirt that I compose.
Lackluster and without soul, best to describe my poems.
Superior poets roam the world bringing justice to the forum.
Oh, how I envy them. Oh, how I hate them. Oh, how I wish I was them.

Fuck, you know nothing about writing, bottom of the class,
flunked English class, the one to graduate last.
The arts you should dismiss 
Get a nine to five job, be the example,
clean peoples piss,
the one society tramples.
Look in the mirror scream,
you’re a wannabe, living on a possibly, in poverty.
A monopoly base on popularity.
It’s comedy to be novelty, where’s the originality?

Writing words with pen and notepad
Working hard toward the art but where’s the love at?
Don’t sell yourself short.
Listen to your friends and fans for moral support.
Because it is true what is said
The worst critic is in your head.
Calm the mind accept the facts
You’ll never write like this or that.
You’ll never write that poem
Because young poet, you are not them.
You are you,
you see the world through different eyes,
that’s where the beauty of poetry resides.