People always said my poems were quite bad.
They said they were simple,
with a simple rhyme scheme.
Indeed, they weren’t wrong.
...
Behold, this round room
with all doors closed but one.
The room is filled with light
where once there was none.
...
The boy slits his wrists in solitude.
He is alone in mind and body.
No one there to save him.
When he needs everybody he has nobody.
...
There was this girl, you see.
She was quite close to me.
She was there in my times of need.
but now where is she?
...
Words, with their flames,
Souls do ignite,
Echoing their whispered meanings
Long into the night.
...
Walking through a cold night,
Eyes lit, but no light.
Nice and silent,
Like I like.
...
Bad Poetry
People always said my poems were quite bad.
They said they were simple,
with a simple rhyme scheme.
Indeed, they weren’t wrong.
They said I wasn’t expressing myself enough
because I followed the rules.
They said I needed to be free
or else I was failing to express me.
So I tried it their way.
I spit some random words on a page.
I removed the pesky little words that made it make sense
and added some nonsensical imagery to top it off.
They hailed it a masterpiece and cheered.
It was so well thought out, they said.
It would enlighten society!
They could finally see me.
I looked them in the eye,
I said I’m glad that you do.
Now could you please explain it to me?
Because I haven’t a clue.