I've decided to try my hand at slam poetry,
but it's lacking in luster as no one is present.
They can't hear my voice, my inflection, my tone.
I'm not waving my hands, I am sitting alone
in a house with drawn curtains.
Were I on a stage the curtains would stay...closed 'til the day I crawl out of my shell and spit rhyming hell
on deaf ears.

I'm certain that nothing is quite what it seems and I'm hungry, I'm parched 'cause the beer in the fridge is finished and I find my self feeling empty, diminished.

And I can't help but think of the people that do this shit as a living
considering all the unforgiving audiences present at anytime, poised to strike at the first thing they see that offends.
those
 that sit on the 'net waiting, baiting and raping
anything posted and never abating
their slaughter of innocents airing their laundry
on the biggest platform man has ever created.

I'm tempted to go off on a tangent, be rampant to shudder the the ramparts of all I've invested to gate my community, separate and rested.

Until I get pissed and in trouble again...