I am crumbled like a paper with inadequate poetry and disowned words.
I am the bad poetry that you hear from an amateur. The one that lacks litery expertise. The one that doesn’t know enough metaphors. The one that fails to rhyme. The one with broken lines. The one that swallows millions stories into a line. The one that need more expertise to be understood than to express. The one that overspills yet fits into mouth just fine. The one you wouldn’t understand. Ever. The one I couldn’t explain to you. Never. The one you would probably hear and dislike at once.

The one that you would hate.

I am that peotry.  

That is short of a melody.