Start
Your home grown words of babble are no match for this real, reality. They are but clawed, gnarled carvings of your immediate scrolled banality.
Metrical schemes, un-synchronised  with punk'ed, punctuation, frozen stanza's, deconstructed, into emotional  isolation. 
Median 
The means and themes  are a shackled, shackles show, a chaotic sentence of structured syllables, a critiqued wheeze, howled and meek, of which no prose or poetry will grow. Just an unfelt ink scream, scattered  on to the  empty page.
End
I could go on, but its knowing when to stop.