Sixty minute poem: Self-loathing of a fool

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,, just so you know…

Self-loathing of a fool: I’m not a writer

Writing is not cathartic

It’s a chore

Meditative bore

A fraud

That you laud

Nobel Prize

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

My 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)