Go through the park, but your mate comes back
With a little bundle of Veronica Speedwell.
Do not, oh my lovely ladies, cry to him
"That's a weed!" for his heart may be broken
And he may not bring you the dandelion
Or the wild violet, or the daisy either.
Know, it was on his heart to bring you
This blue flower in the first months of spring.
For, you were on his heart and mind.

1.

i am power
i am strong
but i am frail in heart

2.

i write like a madman
and get all i want done
but none

3. 

a trick a track
i have tracks up my sleeves
not of heroin needles
but needs

4.

do you want to know me
you can't
because i am an enigma to myself

5.

run through the looking glass
i found alice at the bottom of the hole
and then i drank some rum

6.

i literally can write all of this in ten minutes
with just stream of conscious thought
scary ain't it
this is the effort of a grandmaster
or is it the effort of a poser

7.

am i a poser
or am i only realized
when i write platitudes

8.

instagram poetry sucks
i was told
it took me too short to write
give me meter
rhyme
and not just fortune
i stuck to the high ground

9.

it stinks what's been done to the art
but it all dies by offense

10.

i feel the bones of my depression deep
like a knife cutting my skin
and i feel its razor over my blood
dripping down my side
i say i will not commit suicide
for this is only mental anguish
and not blood

11.

the sad thing about instagram poetry
is the most challenging part of writing it
is undoing the punctuation

12.

i am a powerful warrior
but i lost too much time

13.

i spent twenty years to write this poem
only so another could call me a joke

14.

i truly love to write
don't you know
and i am as good as any
but they stalked me like a tiger
and took away my meal

15.

i thought to myself
i am not the greatest
or the best
but then i saw what was being written
and i said i cannot compete

16.

the princess was there
and i wooed her
but she moved to another table
and i was sad

17.

the princess always saves her self
but when will the princess save her boy

18.

we are all lonely in this world
and whos to blame but men who think
procreation is a sin

19.

if i had a dime for every hour spent in misery
i wouldn't be rich
for i know the misery of those beneath me

for an american i am miserable
which isn't much

20.

i cannot write a stale platitude
though i try

and that is why i cannot be famous
i know too much about nuance

21.

full belly full life
do i write like her
and betray myself so it continues
or do i make my own spin

nobody likes it for gratitude is in famine

22.

take the most lucid thought
and dull it

23.

i am blue and wear my glasses
with the tint of green i saw them in oz
green is life blue is sadness
i know not which one to wear

24.

oh please let me write my odes
which let me express the full measure of my thoughts
so i do not get relegated to this

25.

i could literally write fifty of these
in less than an hour
as time to write is only worth every stroke
yet the lioness stole the prey
and mercy stands by waiting for me

Here's my instagram poem:

I am me
nobody else is
I am strong
she is strong
she is me
but not me
-- a character I'm using to make a point (less than 4 seconds)

I could literally write a thousand of those, without the single most effort.

A poem in Trochaic Pentameter:

I struggle today on my own mercies---
Great is the day of my time and treasure.
I need not waste a mental hour on 
Frail bones, and shallow truths; awaken heart
To the image of greater destinies! 
Poetry shall be one day freed, so me. (About 10 minutes)

1.

The prettiest of words, doth not make a faith
When thou crown'st thy works to make Catholics afraid...
Sore reminder you are that a Poet great
Does not save a soul, for rather irate
You were at your brother's death
And then became a Protestant mess.
You persecuted your brethren who were very poor
You wagged your tongue and then once more
Preached against their miserable poverty;
You lashed your tongue at their misery---
And mocked and scorned and had no remorse:
You teach me that a poet does not get saved
By pretty words, which always amaze.---
For I would have rather been dull and not said a word.

2.

For I would have rather been dull and not said a word,
Should my words be toward my brother in curse.
For when you were Catholic, your heart was pure
I see it, I see it, you were so cured
Of malice and slander and awful hate.
Then, your brother died and irate
You took it out on the Catholic Church
When England had made its laws a curse.
Your brethren had no means to find work
As you wagged your tongue on the lector's perch.
And judge I do not, I do not this day
For I know not whether you are in heaven always.
I just know... like Antichrist will some day
Study the dictators, the Christians, their lives I shall gain.

3.

Study the dictators: The Christians, their lives I shall gain,
To know how to live a life so gay.
I shall study you and Bunyan and Paul
And learn how to be Most Christian of them all.
For Antichrist thou art, with your false prophet tongue
To wag at good Christians and their sons.
So Antichrist shall study the Dictators and Laws
I shall study Good Christian sons.
And the poets and the sages and the wise men too;
I shall learn all there is to know about the good.
And when it is, even the gays
I shall not wag against them on that day.
I shall say, "Look, these are sinners it's true
"But have mercy on them, have mercy on them too."

4.

"But have mercy on them, have mercy on them too,"
I shall scream as the Christians march by twos
In their lines of war and peace
And the invasions of their worldly armies.
And I shall say on that day,
"You wagged against the Catholics and I by my way
"Studied only the good heavenly truth
"For I do not know if in heaven you roost.
"Yet, I shall not judge, I shall not judge
"Not you, not me, not a gay man's sludge
"Of foul sin and dirt and sodomy's filth
"I shall speak of peace until I'm stilled."
For a good man you were in your youth
Before you were fearful of your brother's couth.

5.

Before you were fearful of your brother's couth,
You were good, and you were then proved.
Why did you then put to the worse your proof?
When your brother died, you converted to Anglican
And then you slandered your Catholic fellowman.
I am, I am, I am a good Lutheran
And will not leave my peace of Philadelphia's rudiments.
For I will not wag against any man
And those who I did I shall then understand
From every tongue's judgment I shall be weaned
For I may be a poet Laureate some day, it remains to be seen.
Over my life and over my words, it will be said
"He practiced what he preached, and he did what he says." [So]
The prettiest of words, do not make a faith.

Cuchulain, many have you slain
Upon the Warfield, with the fat
Of blood upon your weapon.
Waxy is your steel---so like Christ's
When He treads the winepress---
And the bloody bands and brains
Are blown out by your blows.
Finally, one hapless warrior wounds you
And guts hanging from your stomach
You go through, and murder many;
And then you die, creating a blood feud
Which your pal takes an oath to avenge.
Such is war, and its eventual end.

There was a Sheep who found a Dragon, and the Dragon spoke to him, "Do as I say, and you will have a pleasant life. Be not fearful, little Lamb, and prosper, revel, but give up your voice. Give up your freedom and your pastures, and lounge in my fields, and I shall cause the grass to grow and feed you. I shall give you greener pastures, if you give up your voice." The Sheep, seeing the Dragon's teeth, said, "I know thou art dangerous, and will gobble me up."

Then, a Beast approached, being far more tempting. It said, "Just give me your voice, and your freedom, and let me feed you, and give you all your heart's desires. I shall treat you right. You shall take my money, and be happy and fed. Work all hours, and work all days, and I shall give you the life you desire." The Sheep said, "No, for I know you are a gnarly Beast and will gobble me up."

Then, finally, a Satyr came, and said, "Little Lamb, Thou dost protest too much. Here, take this mark into your flesh, and into your body; become a machine. And worship this former Beast, for he is good, and will feed your belly. He will give you much work, and much food, and satisfy your wants with pleasure innumerable. For we shall dance, and make nude play with the she-Lambs, and make good fortunes. And you will never have to worry again." The Sheep said, "No, you are more tricky than the last, for I saw he was ugly, and you are still so kind in your voice, but again, I say no."

Thus, the Satyr was furious, and said, "So you shall not take my master's bidding, and worship him? You shall not have the religion I profess? Then you shall be roasted on a spit." And the Satyr beheaded the Lamb, and roasted him on a spit. Yet, the Lamb was happy where his soul went, in a better pasture, with a better Shepherd in a better Land. 

The Crow could count, and the Toddler could too. And the Crow could speak, and the Toddler could, too. The Crow and the Toddler went to a contest. "Tell me the color of this," and both the Crow and Toddler could. "Open this jar," the Crow could, but the Toddler couldn't. Thus, the Mad Scientist over the project said, "Alas! The Crow is more intelligent!" Yet, the Toddler sung a hymn and old Nursery Rhyme, and the Toddler painted a picture with his finger. And the Toddler also stacked upon themselves, blocks in great number. And the Toddler also could do everything the Crow could, save open the jar to get to the food. The Crow then rebuked the scientist, "Look to this child, what else it can do, and not just complete menial tasks to get fed. For the Child is a wonder to all Heaven, and I but a Crow that can name the colors of ornaments, and know shapes and know what is bigger. The Child, on the other hand, does all this and more, and so I can surf on a piece of bark, and play in the snow, the Child does this, too. What the Child does that I do not, is it bears the image of God."