I can’t write poetry so I have given up trying
The perfectionist in me is frustrated and crying
It stresses me out to the brink of explosion
It feels to me like an incomplete notion
I don’t understand it, it doesn’t make sense
I don’t know why it’s not a criminal offence
The rhymes are tacky and the meanings follow suit
It feels like free falling with no parachute
It’s boring to write and boring to read
I just see it as one big misdeed
For me, the art of poetry is just one big mess
And I can’t be bothered with it:  it’s not worth the stress