The poetry book from a sad a** teenager.

Lucky Charms

I hate lucky charms.

They were meant to be a treat.

Now plain colorless cheerios?

Those are nice to my teeth.

Each one is uniform. Each is the same.

Each tastes like paper. Bland. Unchanged.

Those motherfucking charms, god what a bore.

Who told them they could be exotic little whores?

Taste the flavors:

sour strawberry, overripe orange, lucid lemon, gripping grapes, bitter blueberry, pungent plums

Blegh, fuck those ones.

Mother tells me leave them alone.

They don't hurt you, so just let them be.

Now if you eat one yourself?

Psh I am nothing but dead meat.

So fuck lucky charms

Who even gave them rights?

They're sins that don't deserve to put up a fight.

But then in the grocery store

I took a look at the boxes

The black and white boxes stood in the background of your bright red vibrancy

Your gorgeous sharp edges

Rich red rivets

Soft succulent marshmallows that smell of cinnamon

Taste the rainbow.

So I reached out my hand and I let it get the best of me.

I grabbed the box.

I purchased it on the spot.

I turned my back on the monochrome world.

And I put one in my mouth.

Wait. Stop.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be.

Who am I? Suddenly sucked into this mother fucking fruit tree?

I don't like marshmallows. I hate the sticky shits.

Stuck on my

Skin.

Sticking to my

Skin.

Sucking on my

Skin.

But then, turn around, and what do I find?

Sensual Strawberry, Overwhelming Orange, Lavish Lemon, Glazed Grapes, Buttery Blueberry, Passionate Plum.

Fuck.

I can't get enough.

Stop. Enough.

This isn't who I am.

I fucking hate cheerios.

Lucky charms are my brand.