How do I hate thee? Let me count the ways.
I hate thee to the co-ordinate y
My soul exists, and so begging to die
In revising chem, maths and more all days.  
I hate thee more than the universe size
If Olber’s paradox was somehow true.
I hate thee freely, as men fight Mech 2.
I hate thee purely, as they waste their lives.
I hate thee with a passion put to use
Poetically procrastinating you.
I hate thee with hatred I cannot lose
With my lost UMS – hate thee with breath,
Pens, tears, of all my strife – and, if God choose,
I shall only be free when I’m with death.

The clocks are quickly ticking, rushing me further onward,
Yet nothing really seems to change aboard this grand train.
The starting station is long a forgotten sight from afar,
As a million only well-dressed people shut the curtain to hunt a star.

No things will halt The Times today, or our most important endeavours
Five down is completed now and – I stumble! (the train’s slowing judders)
Christ, my leg! – it’s filthy down here…. And I find suddenly there's no time for care  
Glancing through the compartment door – no: I’m transfixed, and I stare

Goodness. A gracious bombardment of purest light,
Crystalline, through the porthole’s grime.
Refracting into purples, and blues, and yellow sights!
So this is how beauty blossoms, allowed time.

Suits, ties, over-priced liquidised decadence
Are overcome, barely visible, amidst her the flower’s resonance
And blissfully reducing my colleagues to uttering, babbling nonsense
Until I hear the gunshot crack

The wheels regain motion
Re-shredding morals to smithereens
Though I cry, desperate to see her through bloodshot eyes
She’s left me only dark red puddles though the doorway

Elegant; false; frightened; confused - I am not one for words

Ponies run wild in the fields,
the long grass mixing with the hay.
The beautiful flowers meet the ponies feet
and the sky is clearless today.

Two young boys, up a brown oak tree
clearly expressing their minds.
Clearly and freely as the ponies below,
making use of a waste of time.

Piglets are growing beyond near,
sown from their mother's seed.
Free to grow, large and outward,
free to have all that they need.

The oak tree is brown and new,
and does little to stop the sun.
The sun illuminates its landscape,
the landscape near and gone.

Electricity is sky blue,
and wonderful in daylight.
The stupid horse will get scared,
try to run - try to fight.

It can't win.

The two boys know this,
as they relax in their tree.
They're farmers, but not out of choice,
but out of who they were born to be.

To write a brilliant poem:
Use a concoction of ridiculous words.
Non-sensical message conveyed.  
Show off your manipulation to language.

Stop. And pause. And start again,
your repeated point no longer in tandem.
Then for some unknown reason ignore all logical structure and ask a question?

Darken your mood.
Randomly: use colons.
Where do; you use; semi-colons¿

Only poets admire your work.
The rests are ignorant gits,
who cannot see how your use of a thesaurus can bring upon untold bliss.

Reflect. Unreflect.
One or two words don’t quite make sense.

Finally summarise, your all-knowing point takes flight
Filled with silent anger; you’ve written utter sh**e.