I wrote this a while ago. I found it today, changed a single word, and decided to post it.

Words stuck in teeth,

Words caressing the tongue and clinging to the tonsil,

Words damaging the spine and the liver,

The brain, the toes, the heart.


Who said art had to be beautiful?

My art is my pen, my page and my brain,

And my art is not composed.


My art is ugly, abashed and raw.

My art is unrefined and uncaring.

I am a painter of prose,

A sculptor of the tricksy phrase.


I am a writer, a poet, a crafter of expression,

And I am terrible.

Disjointed, Fragmented, Rambling and frightening,

My words explode from the pen in reams of molten hate.


They make sense to none,

Mean something to none,

And yet they mean everything to all.


Choking on lies, crafted lie after pseudo-promise,

s-s-stumble and f-fall over e-each t-trippy v-vowel



There is promise inside her,

so much potential.

But she is not talented.


Her words are stuck in her brain,

Purge after purge, and they refuse to shift

Thrown into the gutter with the beasts who scream;

The air pounds with the promise of rejection.


Words stretched to breaking point,

Syllables screeching in pain,

Silence never comes and my art never stops,


Promising a life it cannot lead,

And a person it cannot be.

The End

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