Sit in the shadow and don't talk.
Make yourself scarce.
Don't make friends you cannot leave.
Don't make it harder than it has to be.
And always, always remember,
You are not one of them.

Who is Happiness?
Where has he been?
Where is he going?
I wish I could follow.

Fingers, that do not touch.
Nose, that will not smell.
Ears, that will not hear.
Tongue, that will not taste.
But the eyes, the eyes
See all.

Not worthy to tie his shoe, or see his face.
I'm worth nothing, bogged down in disgrace.

I'm covered in grime, dirt and shit
As I tell him I want none of it.

Repulsive ans ugly, demanding and sick
Loosing but fighting the current of Styx.

I wish I could take that One Big Leap
I wish I climb That Hill, so steep.

To follow that King, the One so strong
Being apart, it feels so wrong.

But this shit I'm up to my neck in
Against it I feel I just cant win.
I'm in the freezing water, and I can't swim,
Against the current of Dis and sin.
Help, please.

I'm sick to death of playing pretend
And I cant help but wonder how this will end.

You cannot catch me.
I'm too small.
Slip through your fingers
Like smoke on the wind.

By the way, these poems I either wrote in class or at camp. It's amazing how inspirational a group of dog-tired grumpy smelly people can be, especially if you don't know most of them. At camp, I wrote less poetry than I would normally, but they were better poems, and they dove deep into the heart of many things; so deep I cant post them here for fear of what he'll say. Anyway, yea, that's what these last seven poems were about.
The dirty dishes one i think will confuse a lot of people, but it's funny, I wrote it during a meal time, and was struggling to find a line that i could conclude the poem with. I couldn't find anything that would fit. Someone leaned over to me to take my bowl, and them said really clearly, "You can put your dirty dishes in here..." I dunno, it just was there when i needed sommat. And i think it worked with the topic anyway.
Feel free to tell me that it's shit.

Round and round
So strong, and ready
To abuse it's power.

And they say nothing.

It hits hard
And many fall
Along with homes
And family.

And they still wont.

Many missing
More dead.
And those who survived
Starve as they plead.
But no,

They still shake their heads.

How can you watch them suffer?
Your people starve on a diet
Of force-fed pride.
You're killing them.

This is not my pen.
Not the tool of crap
That shows no talent.

This is the weapon
Shakespeare was proud of.
It has written (with it's hand)
Tales deep and full,
Poetry I will never write,
Stories I will never tell.

This is Matthew's pen,
The pen of talent.
Ink about to be 'spilled'
With care and feeling.

This is a pen, nay, The Pen
Which will discover new lines
And bitter-sweet secrets.
It will knock on the door of truth
And be let in.

And my pen, though fancier:
Bears no match
Has no talent
Holds no secrets
Tells no truths.

In short, it's just a pen.

What if I do Lord?
What if I dont?

To feel her strength between your knees.
That rhythm, 2 beats, 4 beats, 3 beats, 1 beat.
She beats the drum of the earth.

Invisible and free, mighty and strong.
Unstoppable power, singing speeds song.

Heavy breathing, rhythmic blending
Blurring speed and heavy muscle.

Watch her run with incredible grace
As together we fly to finish this race.

Look into my heart,
Tell me what you see.
Does is lie in dark,
Or sit in light?

Put your dirty dishes in here.

I'm a slave
Ruled by a master
I hate to love.

He drives me
Moves me on,
But wont let me rest.

Takes more than he gives.
I gave him my heart,
But he wants my soul.

Stare me in the eye
And I'll glare right back.
I'm wrong,
But don't give a damn.

Don't you bother help
I'll just self-destruct
And bring you
With me.

Why do you stay?
Why not just leave?
Why do you care?
It's not your fault.

"Abi your're sick!
No one wants you.
No one wants to join
Your sick little occult."