"Come on page, where do the words fit?"
In the puzzle that is my brain, i ask as at
The table i sit
My hairs have split, like cheap ****** Remy
But then again maybe my idea bulb isn't lit.

"Come along pen, why can't you write?"
We've been up with this piece since last night
I ask myself again, this is really starting to frighten me, i know i might be pressuring myself too much,
But that's where the best moments come from, in the clutch.

"Come on heart, where's your spark? You usually flutter in the act of creating art!"
But alas no wings flapping, and no adrenaline rushing like a spotted chameleon
Just stone faced cynicism like a gremlin

I **** at writing poetry, but I do it anyway
Because life is an absurd struggle in
An impersonal universe, thus rendering
All efforts ultimately meaningless,
If that's the case, why shouldn't
I write bad poetry? If we are to, as
Camus says "imagine Sisyphus happy"
Then I'll keep rolling this metaphorical
Boulder of frustrated creativity up the
Mountain of artistic expression, in the
Misplaced hope that just maybe,
One of these times, instead of rolling
Back down and adding one more instance,
To that large pile of abject failures that
I've accumulated throughout my life,
It will stay at the top, rendering me
Successful, and making one of these
Jumbled word salad tangents into
Something that's actually worth reading.

...probably not gonna happen, though.

I am not adequate
I'm never enough
For my own expectations
Which are incredibly tough

My imperfections and flaws
Are pointed out, for sure
Mental slave drivers don't pause
From their enduring hurt

Yet these expectations are invented by me
Nobody else says I'm not enough
From this mental state, I'd like to be free
I'm tired of this self-battering stuff

Losing the difference
in the grand design
Without a kiss
from another kind
or the oral tradition
It's been months
since I last looked behind
and felt sorta lucky
Or last imagined myself
in a bed
with a girl
who likes me
Some soft perfume
in your eyesight
fills me up
with some raven desire
to take control of how your time unfolds
My genes are bruise steepers
they're valiant cut keepers
and in my soupy potential
I'll find I've wasted too much time.