Earlier today I sat down tired and confused. Sixty minutes later I had written a poem…. And the shoddiness/sloppiness is very, very evident. What do you expect from me? I’m uneducated and not very sharp (not with 5.5 hours sleep anyway). In a way this poem is reflective of my own solipsist indulgence (as is every thing I’ve ever written) so I guess it explains itself.
Although I guess you won’t…. because it’s terrible.
P.S I utilised the assistance of an online rhyming dictionary, Rhymes.net, just so you know…
Self-loathing of a fool: I’m not a writer
Writing is not cathartic
It’s a chore
That you laud
Literary highs, sensationalised.
Shootin’ the breeze with the literati
And all that it implies
No doubt I’ll meet my critical demise
With this disguise
Once an erudite messiah
Now just a pariah
Acclaimed to defamed
But for now it’s Trans-Atlantic journeys
Wish to collaborate
Wish for me to elaborate?
Transport to another: the neuroses, 3am frustrations,
Block and migraines
For personal gain
That is, if I can write anything decent in the first place
Because I’m just stuck here in this one bedroom flat in Hackney
And I can’t rhyme
(Delusions and daydreams of the sublime)