Grumpy Poet Syndrome.
Each poem I write isn't good enough...
So I wright this.
words press against the inside of my skull,
Something set them off.
I spray these pages with phrases like horse piss.
Then I gain control.
I sit back in my chair... "looks pretty rough."
Why did i wright this?
Was this crap in my soul? What if its so?
I start to laugh.
If my work is simply verbal piss,
this must be my toilet bowl.
This poem is about:
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