I know little of rhyme
Nothing of meter
My writings, barbaric
Don't express either
Part of poetry
As well as another
Someone more well-versed
In giving poems color
I use alliteration on occasion
Pauses to be dramatic
These little lacking lines I craft
Probably come off as erratic
Syllables be ******
Imagery imagined
Rhymes forced
One of the only poems I know
Is about a hearse
One that ominously rides by
Intimidating some unfortunate guy
Reminding him that he'll eventually die
Or those under the pen of Poe
Whose tales of distortion and woe
Are firmly engraved in my memory
As empty as blank verse
I sit here vexed and cursed
Trying to express my thoughts
My more artistic passion
Which just so happens
To be in a more archaic fashion
Than the others I admire and read
But I've never taken the time
To put poetry under a microscope to see
The framework that could lead the blind
Guiding and inspiring those who write poetry
And so I'm inclined, but don't really mind
Remaining forever in obscurity

What eyes do you look at me with?
I could never tell because your vision is always turned away from me
Even when you're staring directly, your eyes are never focused
As if your eyes—your heart—is affixed to something else
If I weren't here, surely you'd feel more lonely
But would it be more lonesome to your heart or your eyes?
Do I mean something to you, or am I just something to look at?
Something to appease your boredom and apathy?
Something to have so you won't be left with nothing?

Is there something behind me?
I'd love to look, to find out what captivates you
But these stakes impaling my legs to the chair are too weighted for me to pull
For now I'll just remain and stare
Gaze at you and lose my mind in the dense atmosphere
I wish we could be lost here forever
Wouldn't eternal nothingness be something nice?
I always thought it would be, at least with you
But you were never looking at me in the first place