April might be a productive month, poetry-wise.

The Futile 
I've heard said that it's only on the inside
That counts.
I pray to God that isn't true.
I may not be a beauty queen,
But on my life,
Believe you me,
I'd rather be on judged my every physical flaw
Than for anyone to see what I look like inside.

I'm serious,
Halfway delirious,
And quite sure you
Can't handle my
Head, much less
My heart.

I had to turn the water scalding hot,
To remind myself what it's like to feel.
And I couldn't stand long in one spot,
The pain was far too real.

Apathy, slow poison.
Antipathy, false friend.
I'm crying out
And falling down
But I refuse to break,
Regardless of how I bend.