Don’t Read My Fucking Poetry

Hey, 

Don't read my fucking poetry 

To you, 

Not but spelling errors,

with some amends,

To me a goddamn embarrassment, 

An ill measure mess of twisted words, 

That form little more than a coiled turd, 

That I wouldn't want said nor heard, 

Some poor little caged flapping bird, 

Losing feathers, malting fur

Beating wings helplessly, 

Feelings wanting desperately to be free,

Notions of devotion that at first I thought were real and now they seem, 

so obviously,

not to be,

Penned proud, 

But looking now, 

They read like E L James to me, 

Only words that couldn't stand the test of time, 

No fucking reason,

Let alone a rhyme

A Las Vegas surgeon of prose,

Nothing new but a fake fucking nose

Not but shallow thoughts, 

Just skin pulled taught,

Over a face so full of plastic, 

With a drastic change of mind, 

From pride,

To lyrical poverty

Exposing my inability to see

More than what lies three feet in front of me

And form a sentence that means little more than 1 or 2 or C,

Of course, it's a load of rubbish

What did you expect?

Its Just Bile spewing endlessly,

The discovery that I have little more than Korean pop, 

chain coffee shops, 

Or bent fucking cops inside of me,

Just a product of consumption in a world that hardly ever breaths, 

A waste of brain cells

I've single-use bottled it!

No more being green

Just shove my head in the sand 

No more taking in the scene,

I'll stay here and Blindly Wait for the lap of the sea 

But that does seem to make far more sense to me,

It's better Than anything I could write or dream,

The sheer inevitability, 

What lies in the book where you now look is nothing but a complete lack of creativity, 

Imagination you have failed me, 

So please, 

If you wouldn't mind, 

Don't read my fucking poetry.