Poems come from coloured strings
Woven, semi-precious things
Threading through a patchwork life
To highlight heaven, smother strife

It’s finding words in warm, damp places
Rhymes to match despondent faces
Falling asleep on a cluttered desk
Rocking up to the stage, an anxious mess

It’s a soda and lime with a whisky chaser
Another stiff drink so you can face her
Confessional verse they’ll all forget
Just to get it off your chest

Poetry is masturbation
It’s a crywank, procrastination
Speak the part and play the role
And stain his bedsheets with your soul

Looking for meaning in your junk
And plucking feelings from your cunt
All you find is a gooey mess
That almost passes for sentience

One day it’s couplets from the heart
The next it’s dick jokes disguised as art
Then it’s words to quell the pain
Or sage advice for hiding stains

p>Poetry can last the ages
Dirty verse on crumpled pages
Messy words, handwritten notes
Any excuse for a Shakespeare quote

It’s a lack of self awareness
Even though you couldn’t care less
Apart from that night you gave a shit
You showed your arse and looked a tit

You’ll try it out, you’ll fuck it up
You’ll write enough crap to fill a book
You did the rhyme, you’ll do the time
And keep on writing line after line.