This is the first poem I ever wrote [5/2010]. It’s supposed to be spoken word, or “slam poetry.”

It doesn’t matter if you get fatter. And it wouldn’t matter if you were “flatter”
What matters is your love of cats, your orange-rind snacks,
and your irretractable, burning lust for learning – cause that‘s what attracts.
So I’m going brains, or, bust. And while I’m yearning I must clarify; that this bust (.)(.) just ain’t enough for me.
I’d rather discuss Newton’s apple than new diet gluten-free Snapple,
so GIRLS! Get your mind off the scale, and for God’s sake it’s OK to be pale.
This focus on mass times gravity results in weighted depravity,
and fleeing from your skin tone leaves you even more prone
to cancerous tumors of unvanquished rancorous rumors:
“Am I too tan? Pale? Tall? Or too frail, too big, or too small?”
There’s only one correct answer that I’ve ever heard.
I wanna hear you say these three words:
I love me
I love me
I love me
but even ten thousand times a day doesn’t pay respect to the expectations I detect
and next time you inspect yourself, go more than skin deep and
keep dreaming, keep gleaming,
because from the head on her neck, to the souls on her feet, you’re the one that I seek.
And if you CoverGirl her up, I’ll peak right underneath,
cause anything other than the real you
just doesn’t fucking matter.