My poem is uninspired.

It is boring; it sounds tired.

You may like it for its tons of rhymes,

But trust me, it ain't worth your time.

Now, ain't ain't a word,

But it's a word many have heard.

I'm some guy that you might count on,

But truthfully, I'm an oxymoron.

I do this, but then I do that.

My parents ask, "What is that?"

To worsen the situation, I avert their questions

and I always hope to give them false assertions.

I suck it improvising.

The distractions are hypnotizing.

At any infuriating moment,

I don't externally vent.

I don't deliberately react,

It's my form of verbal tact.

I have words from my mouth to give,

But I'm not willing to be instigative.

Is instigative even a word?

Is it something you've even heard?

I think I come off as weird.

My actions I have feared.

To put it simply, I'm self-conscious.

My thoughts are always precocious.

I don't react to many things

For the fear that I might start other things.

Those things might be against my will

And I might begin to climb uphill.

I have so many things to say,

But I try to be in my most modest way.

Despite my worthwhile achievements,

Am I really the best?

Did you catch that there was no rhyme?

If you did, congratulations.

I think that you're better than me.

I think I'll always be second best.

I think I can't open up to others.

I think I'm holding myself back.

I think that you can't do anything about this.

I think to no avail.

However, I just try to be more open,

And even when I try to be more open,

I deny myself some satisfaction

For I am

such

a

flippin'

perfectionist.