So I'm sitting here, right?
Thinking of something to write.
It's not going very well, if I'm honest.

Like, I can't really think of something important to say...
Poems are meant to be poignant, though, aren't they?
Something worth time and effort, like a parable, or learning how to drive.

If you're interested, it hasn't been that long,
But I underestimated my own ability to shut down at will,
To run head first into dead-ends.

What is a poem, really?
That's not rhetorical, I am genuinely confused; my default state.
How many feet do I need in a line? I only have two to spare.

And if I give them away, how do I cross the finish line?
So I'm stressing over where to put the stresses
So my head's as blank as the verse in a Shakespeare play.

So I'm losing patience quickly, like a drunk doctor,
Or some similarly silly simile-slash-simulacrum,
Simulating the deepest of sympathies for myself.

Wait...Did I just do it? Did I just write a poem?
I think I did. I mean, I probably wasted your time in the process.
Sorry about that. Really, I am. How do I finish this?

Thanks for listening!
Wait, no...
The end!
No, hold on! I can do this...
Have a nice day!

Ah, whatever. You get the point.

Now,
Don't you tell me to chill.
Like the Beastie Boys I've
got a license to ill.
Over-confident for
insecurity's sake.
An ego so big
sudden drops could
cause a quake.

Now,
Shake-Sha-Shake
                    it up.
A poem so apathetic
it might give a ****.
Wanting to rap; also
wanting to write --
don't mistake my words
for something tight.

Whenever I begin to write a verse,
   I rarely know quite how the work will end;
I try to keep my subjects somewhat terse
   and use the form to make the scansion bend.
I find the meaning somewhere halfway through
   the writing process, where it's leading me;
and try my utmost not to overdo
   the metaphors and sappy imag'ry
(for sentimental verse we hardly lack
   among the countless writings of our time).
I speak of love, but more so I stay back
   and think of other matters for to rhyme,
and when I reach the end and writing's done,
it's not long ere the next work is begun.

I will **** you with a metaphor
My feelings censored
Behind beautiful words.

I dare not say it to your face
The euphemism
When I am burning with anger.

Toying with the void
Here I concoct
The right expression;

My sweet weapon
Retort with an oxymoron.

Then nothing; no paradox or pun
I am even at a loss for a rhyme.

For when our eyes meet
It is poetry I read,
Without a word
We say it all.

This is not about you
This is not about me,
This ain’t really ‘bout anyone-y, honey;
I’m a liar, for Christ’s sakes!

Sure, sure,
THIS one is about me,
That much I can say,
But everything else?
‘Twas all fake.

I am an ink-and-paper conman,
Because that is how I choose to make a living.

Hate me, if you so dare,
For if you do,
Then you, too, hate the likes of
Rowling and Twain and Wells and Hemingway
Shakespeare and Spielberg and Lucas—

Oh, yes, read up,
Lies upon lies in black-and-white!

We are similar in such a way
Which creates alternate worlds and feelings
And beings of different kinds;
We are those who love to implant things
Into your subconscious mind.

What is true to you,
But false to all,
Is the picture you happen to imagine
When you flip pages and have a ball!

Semantics, my dear,
It is what takes you on a trip
Across a flexible lexicon
Where words are invented and used anew;
Where instead of shoes, you wear foot-canoes.

Your favorite books and movies and songs,
All figments of enigmatic mind,
But,
Is it really all that wrong?

Our lies are
For your enjoyment,
And the good of mankind,
An escape from what’s real,
It brings you to light,
Without this work,
There’d be no color to life.

And that’s why we’re liars
In black-and-white.

This is the poeticization machine:
(Say that five times fast)
Raw materials: what I feel and see
The product: powerful imagery --

full of exaggerated angst swathed in
metaphors and rhythm and emotion too
strong to feel
real

Example A: I need a shower so I take it.
Post-Machine:
The burning water scalds my
flesh and I see red rush to the
surface even as the skin on my fingertips
depresses with each passing minute wrinkling
before its time

If I start to write a poem, will I finish it this time
Or will I give up midway through, because there aren't enough rhymes
In this old dreadful, awful language born of brutal feudal swine
Wearing wigs and pantaloons, and saying words like 'thee' and 'thine'?

If I have a hazy thought, will I succeed in making clear,
That murky bit of intuition felt, or will it disappear,
The minute I put ink to paper and begin to toy around
With all the scattered bits of insight that implicitly abound?

If I find myself inspired all the sudden by a muse,
Will she hastily retire before I can spread the news
Of all her wondrous gifts to me, that I so luckily did capture
In a transcendental state of exaltation, joy, and rapture?

If I have a vivid vision, flowing freer than the stream
Of a river, clear as crystal, and as dazzling as a dream
Will my will be of such power that I'll succeed to convey
It, or just fall flat in defeat and then retreat into dismay?

If I see sumptuous fruits that hang atop the mighty tree
That's down the road of human intellect and creativity
Will my reach extend sufficiently to gather them and bring
Them back into...into... oh, **** it! I can't think of anything.

                                                (╯°□°）­╯︵ ┻━┻

Crawling into my own head space
only reminds me of the mediocrity
that climbs the walls of every town and city.
Every thought that races furious around
my brain screams
that I can never be the curious one.
Just the One who observes and never truly
finds his home.
Just the One who whimpers
among those who talk big
and in arrogant tones.

An unfamiliar thing that
never embeds itself in-
to my being.
Talk of arrogance - everyone has it.
Even those who are above it.
Even the One who is not amongst the arrogant,
because he is alone with it. He does not
confide it.
For the One who sits alone confides only in himself
and shares his arrogance with nobody.
Why else would his self indulgent scripture be titled as it is?

reading my old poetry is like sampling
blood's flavour on the tongue
the uncomfortable metallic taste
of something in the wrong place
at the wrong time