An Ironic Poem

Fuck poetry.

Poetry is bullshit.
Go get your own God-damned emotions.
I don't want to make my pain sound pretty;
it shouldn't rhyme, or "flow."
I cannot feel in meter,
nor in free verse emote.

Life just isn't lyrical.
Neither is it digital.
It's analog, and all too rough-
not just around the edges.
It makes no sense,
it's so unfair-
(I spit that word,
"unfair": a curse).
It makes no effort to conform
to any art or order;
it's messy and inelegant,
it holds no rhyme or reason.
It cuts, but when it does,
it uses not a surgeon's skill,
and neither, one's precision;
but hacks away-
a jagged, rusty blade-
as wielded by a madman.

A poem is a lovely thing,
and hence it is too lofty;
too gracious an endeavour, sadly,
for a world which hurts this badly.
Aesthetics are my last concern,
when my heart's been torn to pieces;
my torment I will not compose
in a style which blithely pleases.

stuff I wrote