Poetry is bollocks.
I, Myself and Me,
Me, Myself and I,
I'm so lonesome I could cry.
Analysing life with fatal persistence,
Straightening branches that look better twisted.
You sentence yourself to misery to pay for your crimes,
tying thoughts together with imperfect strands of rhyme.
Trying to fight your way out
of this braindead herd of cattle.
Afraid of uniformity,
lacking stomach for the battle.
Well, I'll tell you a little secret,
you might thank me when you're older
when you rise above your sorrow
and the solace of the shoulder:
no-one wants to listen to your ego-centric shite
about the tears you cry into your pillow in the night.
Ah, but I'm up there with the worst of them
a word-whirling wizard
who couldn't make a snowball
in the midst of a blizzard.