PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

You may read what I'm saying,

But if you don't grasp what I'm relaying,

There's no point for me to try staying,

Sitting right here and conveying,

All the points in words more crystal,

To just say "shoot" instead of pistol.

Look, these are poems. See? They rhyme.

Can't be straightforward every time.

But here it is, right plain and simple,

Without the metaphor and symbol.

My name is Alex, I'm a boy.

I'm sorta quiet, sorta coy.

I like singing, I love dancing,

I don't like cliched romancing.

I'm not perfect, but I'm working,

Trying my best, I'm not shirking.

My rhymes are rarely true or honest,

I dream of May, but write in August.

Sometimes, I just like the sound,

Or sometimes, I just feel profound.

They're lies, or jokes, a fun faccade,

I feel less boring, and less odd.

But, I'm a virgin, I don't smoke,

Twice in my life, no weed or coke.

I've drank three times, throw me in jail,

When I was seven, thought it was Ginger Ale.

Then once, I sipped my aunt's mudslide,

That night, my father tanned my hide.

Once at a party, when I was 16,

I spat Skyy Vodka all over Justine.

The closest I've ever come to having sex,

Was during the scene I watched on Malcolm X.

I don't listen to music where they always cuss,

I'm not prone to screaming or raising a fuss.

I don't even do it myself, not outloud.

Only on this webpage, away from the crowd.

Despite implications and my innuendo,

I wasn't the one who broke that Crossroads window.

I didn't want someone else to get in trouble,

Paid $300 bucks, just to break up the huddle.

I don't want you thinking that I'm so horrible,

If you base your view of me on poetic scribble,

Then well, I guess that's your right,

I guess you're free to it,

My poems aren't my confessions,

Cuz I didn't do it!

  - Lo Ruhamah