Your painter’s palette is pale.
Your canvass lacks any finesse.
With muted tones like silent groans
you meander through another stale
reflection of the veil you never ever raised,
and the colors you used as your muse
drip and dangle at strange angles,
but never ever really move me.

The story you wrote and struggled to promote
caused me to choke in broke despair,
because there was nothing there but air
and empty figures that blankly stared
cause no one was engaged with the page,
so no one was scared when the ill-prepared
people just up and disappeared.

The poem you created wasn’t even hated,
cause it lacked any passion
just picked up dust,
like a red wheelbarrow that rusts
and wastes away worse each day
cause your wretched word play
does not say
anything.