these lines which i sculpt
with my inisights and my insides,
my scars and my suffering,
my sweet soul screaming and scraping
against that delicate balance of my happiness and your hidden agendas...
these lines which i write
as i writh and ramble,
reaching, ramming head, hand, and heart
into the cavernous hollow of our reality...
these words which i spout
and spew
and spit
and sprout,
tangled in the underbrush of impulse...
these things that i am,
this thing that i do:
to you,
it means nothing.
to you,
i am nothing,
nothing but a tornado of wordvomit sprayed on a page
without thought or intent or precision or form...
torn, worn, and tired.
expiring one day at a time.
poetry that does not inspire.