Confessions of a Wannabe Poet

Confessions of a Wannabe Poet

I want to be such a such a good poet, no screw

that

I want to be such a disgusting poet

ensnaring everyone with my lack of talent and

greeting card pallet

and give them such a good illusion 

that they'll even thing my unfinished

scribble is worth the name of the greatest

twenty

food thrown to my garden rats given

to the gods

so year after year it can be recited by

rich little brats.

All of my now insignificant thoughts,

musings I brought

sad conversations, randomly texted

poked and prodded 

autopsied by clowns in mourning suits

books the largest, fattest, dustiest

like the pages of my up-down roller-coaster scribbles at five

I want to ensnare men who were never alive.

Now that I have teased you so permit me

to self-destruct

so I'll keep up the illusion and confusion

of one with a great matter

not that I really matter.

So may it be perhaps or maybe

that I won't find affinity

correct me if I'm wrong, infinity?

Carrying elephants out of the room, stuffing

them behind the bed without headboard

to support my beautiful nightmares

while it tares and cares

for honed lack of skill

but pretty please

I swear, I swear

I never meant any ill.

Wednesday 5th May 2010