Failure
    I'm a failure. I'm pretty much bad at everything, including the things I'm supposed to be good at, or claim to be. My mom thinks I'm weird, my dad likes me I guess, I'm bad at school, I can't do math, I'm only 5feet tall, I'm forgetful, I walk into things, I can't play guitar. The list is pretty much endless. The good news: failure is relative. I don't have to be a failure in my own eyes just because I am in the eyes of someone else. The other good news: everything is temporary.
    So, supposedly, I'm not too shabby with the poetry. The strange thing about poetry is that someone could classify a poem as horrific, while another person could think its remarkable. It's the beauty of the art world. In order to prove this, here is a poem that I think is pretty smoking hot but you might think is awful. 'One man's trash is another man's treasure' as they say.
 

 Rosie Killed Johnny

There is a white hot sun,

Burning on your left temple

Glistening under the dusty lightbulb,

Above our heads.

I’m crying,

Icicles dripping down steamy cheeks run hot with rage.

‘Stop Yelling’,

Heat hits my face and my ribs are a cage to the beast behind them.

Red Talons,

Scraping tight black cotton and I’m thrown into motion.

Tiny fists,

Clutching to a yellow broom handle.

Hair falls over arms over gritty floorboards and over you-

The fight is gone from your eyes, and ice is setting in mine.