Its poetic don't ya see? How the silhouettes remind me of your name in this dark alley.

Crawling back to you in to the license plate you call a name.

Walking into the showplace,

Wondering if there is anybody out there to hear you out for beer money and a ride home.

As you spend your time, day in and day out writing poetry!

To be told "Poetry's just an all time thing!"

While going up on stage claiming "I've got troubled thoughts and a self esteem to match,"

When it just a way to complain about the misfortunes we've had.

Isn't it diabolical don't ya see?

While the kids sit there all smiling with glee on how they have a low self-esteem too,

And their thoughts aren't so troubled.

On a Poetry Slam staring at the crying drunk at the bar claiming "I will never end up like him,"

But soon forget that you've already had.

But that's just me, while diminuendos from the jazz tunes get straighten out,

And I'm flushing myself out into Silhouette Alley, trying to not crawl back.

Situated on writing cheap poems from the back of a fast food receipt!

As you creep in the dark, to stare and to hear the cogs and screws,

I vomit from out my aspirations and cheap wine from the sellouts.

So wipe the smirk off your face, it's scary as hell.

To have a woman who told me, "Everything's alright," when nothing is alright,

With writing poetry of a circled sadness and throwing up in the alley of our first kiss!

I don't wanna think about it.

I already dropped my pen, and my shirt reeks of desperate attempts.

So here's your poetic justice!

You could tell Matthews, Dickinson, Frost, and Neruda, to go to hell would ya!

Poetry's a game, and I'm not playing.