Bad Poetry

My name is Caleb Gorey

The narrative is

My brain is a literary Rubik’s Cube and not even I can solve it

 

The network of my nerves are syntactic

And my blood vessels are but a poem

Clotted with cells of writer’s block

Because my heart is deprived of the right words to gift  my mouth

And my liver faults again and its screaming

“You can’t have it!”

 

I fear I am cursed with a disease

A black magic ritual

For which my days are haunted

By demons of syntactic theory

 

I fear when I yell through my writing

Nobody can hear me

And the words stare back

And curl into thorns which protrude from this keyboard

 

Likewise, it’s all just bad poetry

And no pair of eyes can decipher your descriptions

And no matter how vividly your depiction of vision is

Your stresses are only as thick as these pixels are thin