Like a door, I'm poor at metaphor, and very bad with simile.
I'm more than just a little off on my rhymability.
My mother, the existentialist, has never cared for meaning.
So I've been a little short on plot, ever since my weaning.
My poetry would be aetheric,
if the Muses weren't so esoteric.
It's clearly only clear to MY sense;
'cause I poet without a poet's license.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.