Fuck- A poem

Fuck you!
Fuck bicycle baskets
And fuck the glow-in-the-dark stars
that glued themselves to my bathtub
Fuck you imaginary friends!
I know you were really there
Fuck the unicorns that died out on me
And I believed, too
Fuck all the pompous snotty bastards that made my life hell
In grades two-through eight
Fuck you Ed,
I know you couldn’t really talk.
And fuck the peanut butter that made your lips move.
Fuck people who abuse animals!
Yes, you men who beat baby seals and women who wear fur,
And the men who make movies about a fucking dog
That plays every fucking sport
(Fuck loaded words that don’t mean anything anymore)
Fuck the color guard flag that gave me a black eye
And everything that ever hurt me
Which leads to
Fuck Mom! And Fuck Dad!
Thanks for getting separated and making me another damn statistic.
Fuck statistics.
Fuck you, counselor, for giving my madness a name
And making me not special anymore.
Fuck Ryan Alexander, my imaginary boyfriend,
And fuck his vintage blue thunderbird convertible,
And fuck the way he plays guitar at the coffeehouse
Fuck batman! But unfuck robin, he’s cool.
And FUCK YOU kindergarten hamster!
You didn’t have to eat that staple.
Fuck not being in a coma, and being able to dream
Fuck that I’d rather it not be real and I’d be able to live as I please
FUCK BEING SO LONELY
Fuck that my art is a living cliché
Fuck nonconformity
The best way to not conform is to not worry about whether you do or not.
Fuck Poe for saying what’s in my heart and making it unoriginal.
And very very Fuck Mosquitoes.
Fuckitty fuck fuck fuck mosquitoes.
Fuck worrying that I’m a poser. Fuck seagulls in winter
Fuck biting my nails
-Don’t forget haiku’s
They’re not real poems anyway
So double fuck’em-
Fuck leaves I didn’t catch as they fell
Fuck sporks
Yes, this is sacrilege but
Fuck god, I wish I knew the truth
Fuck red flags and pink shirts
And fuck double and triple standards
Ah, and fuck pencil grips
And when sparrows fight
Sparrows are NOT SUPPOSED TO FIGHT!
Fuck subways and smoking
And that fact that I do not have a smoothie right now
And I really want one
Fuck poetry, and when you think it’s good
But guess what? IT’S NOT!
And fuck yoga, I mean really, what the Fuck?
Fuck mulch and
Sneezing into your hands
And being sad
And crying at movies
And that I’m not thin enough
Fuck my scars
Fuck mouth breathers
Fuck confusion
Fuck not knowing how to end a pointless poem
and fuck ending predictably
Fuck me.