You can't write a song or a poem
without being a slave to its form
It is no longer an outlet like it used to be
It is just a place to copy the people who used it as an outlet
Or to challenge them
But nevertheless not just simply for expressing what is inside you

What is inside me
are visions of mocking faces
turned backs
Upturned noses
Shunning

I am the idiot
That is my archetype
I guess that would mean I act as a comic relief device
Except I'm not very funny
And I don't find it funny that people laugh at
someone struggling sizzling swerving crashing into the waves of misfortune
That didn't make sense
So now people will discount my poem
Because it doesn't make sense
It doesn't follow the ******* rules
And it doesn't make sense of not making sense
Everyone must draw within the lines
Move within the cookie cutter
Fill it

Soon they'll be discussing me
Gossiping
I'll never work with them again
Because I didn't do the work
Oh, could any words be more cruel?
But it's true
I deserve pain, death for betraying them so
But I did try to do it
Oh how I wanted to give a good first impression
But I didn't prepare ahead of time
I didn't manage my time
Such violent words
Blunt, yet sharp