I tried making a poem
with internal rhyme and
ended up with a masterpiece
of spacebars and enter keys

I'm done forcing poems out of me
strings of words tied in bows don't
flow, if I must bleed words, self-inflict
a few choice cuts that will change things

contained in the walls of a room called mediocrity
I will wallpaper them with truth and
learn inspiration, like
a second language
or the better half of me

a wall is a solid and sounds are vibrations
and my heart beats strong enough to shake foundations
neurons pass messages around in my head
it says: in second grade
we learned sound travels fastest
in solids and

I know I will be heard