Why even consider this a poem?
Unwrite it.
Take it back,
but it's too late.

Ink scribbled on rustic pages,
or pages made to look rustic.
Let's face it: you bought this notebook at a bookstore.
It's got to look special for all your elaborate gifts to the world.

You're that special snowflake, yeah?
Your writing against the world of oppressive darkness
surrounding your poor brain, boy.

Write your way out.
****** Toons the wall, and make sure your escape.