No rhyme, no rhythm
call it what you will; it
says nothing and poorly,
you clearly have no skill.
You’re a child’s drawing
seeking approval
to the point of disease;
despite all the re-writes
it's still not going to please.
Nothing you can do
will ever make it float;
bottomed out on critic’s seas
you're just another sunken boat.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem