so self-conscious
it is seriously
contemplating
suicide
it daydreams about
diving off the
goddamn page
becoming an unpoem
a jumble of sentences
a pile of mere letters
i'm trying to
get it to be
like other
well-adjusted
poems
unself-conscious
a poem that
humps the NOW
but this poem
has hamlet-itis
it doesn't give shit
about
its readers
or the writer
i keep pressing it
to experience more
but all it does is
ponder the curves
& 90 degree angles
of its letters
it thinks subject matter
is meaningless
it says god is
inertia
it prefers writer's
block
this poem is
paralyzed
what this poem needs
is a bottle
of whiskey
& some smokes
but it's being
a stubborn sober
pussy
5 comments:
[ laughing ] Hamlet-itis! What a hoot of a poem! Well done, Mr. Plath.
This is an awesome poem.
Fucking good poem!
Great work Rob
Another one of your masterpieces about the craft of writing. Always wonderful to read.
haha loved it. very witty.
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