These mere words can't capture,
The things I hold inside,
They dance and tease, just out of reach,
The monotonous draw just not quite.

The rhyming poems do not rhyme,
The sentences bland and bleak,
The quotes and sayings out of time,
The powerful seem weak.

The story sometimes moves too fast,
Sometimes far too slow,
The characters aren't alive,
The paragraphs don't flow.

The twists are pitiful and turns are weak,
And easy to predict,
The truth as truth is never true,
And sense doesn't click.

It doesn't weave into a web,
But into a chaotic knot.
Where grass is blue, and crystals grey,
Straying from the plot.

My thinking far too twisted,
For people to understand,
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for all extents and purposes, this poem has been left incompleted. Partly because it will amplify the meaning of this poem, mostly because I'm dead tired and can't be bothered. Feel free to use it, just put my name on it and send me a message so I can see.

XOXO
S. Cain