Hi, I'm Sad, the poem.
You've never read me before?
Well, I'm not all that deep
And... my words are a bore
I'm not full of life's mysteries
Woe is me, I'm not smart!
And my my best friend (heaven help him) Is a poem titled, simply, "****"
Anyway, I'm in the midst of an existential life crisis!
For, as far as prose goes, I'm surely one of the nicest
I never rally your tears, instead I
coax out a smile (I've no formal style)
I blame it all on my mother (she beat me as a child)
My rhyme is too clean, with rhythm and flow!!!
It's a total disgrace, believe me!
And the worst part of all is I've tried to be cool
like the profound and deep poems; the popular prose in school
I've climbed every mountain; every chasm and valley
Searched hither and yon (is that deep?) in the darkest back alley
Posted up in a Starbucks, reading a paperback Poe collection
But even Edgar couldn't save me from this depth-less dejection
I made a new pen from porcupine quill and bird feather
Put my words in a book wrapped in bi-color leather
I've hung out with hipsters who sport elbow patch blazers!
I even bought myself a pour-o'er coffee maker
To my throat, I once held a big butter knife
And wept as I pondered taking my life
But still, no strife from that knife did inspire
The depth and subtext, Sad, the poem, desires
Desperate, I broke up with my girlfriend, my wife and my lover!
Hoping loneliness would birth the deep form found in others
I've read every master in search of dark prose
Yet it made me a hack; I use words no one knows
I've held my heart to the sun
Dressed in black
Cried for days
But no depth did I find
Only whimsical ways
The way that
I look on this page!?