Email Poem

Your IP Address: 216.73.216.167
Your Email Address:
To Email Address:
Subject
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem
I've friends who sell drugs, 
and they are driving fast cars.
Friends who are into money heists
and they have mansions and fleets of super Cars,
I've a cousin smuggling diamond and gold, 
and he is flying all over the world

While I am stuck in my foul four walled iron sheet shunt shack
Writing stupid poems most of which I tear in rage
They make me sad and  are too personal, making me feel so small,and foolish 

Trying to stay clean from all the dirty I see 
and believing in manners, ubuntu 
and character, 
Obsessed with personality and etiquette
Beautiful, look they even rhyme,
but always empty like a dream
That do not bring food on the table Nor respect but make me a doormat,a push over, and not a lover
Now girls mock me saying l look nerdy
but definitely not sexy
Sometimes I look at myself on the mirror
and Surely I look thin and weak and obviously poor
I must start going to the gym,
I am too skinny, small and slim

Look I've been praying  since i learnt  the word amen
But this prayer thing is all a joke in vain
Now I don't believe in prayer anymore
Ain't feeling like talking to myself no more
 'coz l feel empty each time i take to my knees, 
Cursing in my solo nights where the bastard is god 
Where the hell are the angels,and famed lovely lord
If ever, wherever, whoever, whatever they are,they must be high on morphine
and dreaming in heavenly euphoria 
And my prayers seem to be scratching their itching arses into a deeper slumber
no, sweet sweet sweet slumber actually

Wait,I was talking about praying.. right,
praying for a better life 
and a good wife, 
What tha hell, a good wife!
My prayers must really be a tempt on God
At this age, in this world, I must be mad 

These filthy creatures all want cologne, clean wheels and money
And they will tell you you are not a real man
Because you can't afford her some fake hairs
and fake nails 
and some presents to post on Facebook
and fast foods as if they can't cook

And while bastards with dough are leaving their wives
For slay queens and hoes 
and slick dingy girls with fake boobs
I am day dreaming of getting married
I know I am old and stupid
I should quit being a budding bard and focus on my life 
Not my future wife 

With all this pain and poverty written on my rough skin,
and my 2 dollar shoes,
I must be magging drunkards in the streets
or burgeoning a filthy rich white collar thief in his home
or pointing a revolver on a doll looking glassed bank teller
Not writing stupid poems nobody reads
CAPTCHA Preview
Type the characters you see in the picture
Required