Any idiot can write poetry
But when you've heard
You're not enough
For so many years
It becomes hard to tell
If your sincerity can be good writing
Or if its just sincere
Minus the key
That's needed
To open the door
That you think
Will tell you
You've
Made
It

I could pity the rich
Just as much as I would envy
But the poor were always ahead in my mind
Not in a glamorous way
But in the raw intensity of their experience
And no matter how much money
You threw at things or experiences
Nothing could beat the
Exasperation
and
Desperation
of panic
When you have no other choices
And then there was me
Seeing both through different
Groups of friends
Drifting like a **** who won't fit in the right pipe
No matter how much you try to flush it
In the end we all need the toilet
Even if one is shiny
While the rest fall apart

Once upon a time in Lund
The kids party
But now I'm the creep
That is okay
We all had our time
To shine
Now I can afford to Be soft
While I wait for them To join me
In this paradise
Of inner peace

Imagine how crazy
You'd have to be
To think you could write a poem
About wastewater
And all its ****
And smells
And textures
And showers
And the ******* sensors that never worked properly
Crazier still
Would be to think
Someone would read about all this
At a toilet
Right before everything
Began again
Down the drain
And through the pipes
Just as my day
Begins again
Imagine

The perfect hate
Fed by the perfect bait
Constantly
Relentlessly
You can't resist the Lure
The boiling inside
Itself feeding your Rage
Until, energized, you Take
Onto the keyboard
Like a true warrior
Except
In this war
The only casualty
Is your agency

Someone has to kick Disney
out of all our heads
and break the bad news
to all those poor young girls
now in their 30s and 40s
still waiting for prince charming
But let's not forget
the poor young boys too
who have been broken so many times
they'd rather stay alone forever
The true romantics
for they tried to make things happen
rather than waiting for things to happen
To
Them
Which makes the shock of reality
All
The
More
Devastating

Intrigued, you'd press generate
And all the verbal diarrhea would come pouring down the screen
Just like in the streets
yet more formally structured
But just as brown
Intrigued, you'd try to see if anything could be salvaged
After all, the point was not to avoid writing
But to get ideas from the machine
Alas, it was all a waste of time
An awfully sorry excuse of writing
And I may be a bad writer
but at least I have good taste
And have built said taste
brick
by
brick
Just like my fyp on tiktok
except
less chinese
but just as
addictive