I'm not nearly as swell of a writer as I say I am,
Slinging words at a page hoping they make sense,
An amalgamation of shit that hits the fan,
A literal fuck-ton of ideas that are just like the rest.
I'm not original, there's no "OC" here,
And in fact, if I tried to force out an original thought,
My mind would surely clot,
And explode from all the overuse and abuse I was putting it through.
I wish I knew how to be witty,
Because maybe then my poems would contain a sense of worth,
Instead of being filled with shitty rhymes verse after fucking verse.
Sure, some of my metaphors are up to code,
But poetry is like a god-damn race,
And your car has some asshole in the pit,
Who doesn't even know how to make a steering wheel cover fit,
But he's trying his very best,
And that's what matters when it comes to the real test, right?
Wrong again, buddy-
You may get a participation medal and a pat on the back,
But will that be enough to silence your mind when you lay in bed,
And it's late at night and all you wanna do is hit the sack but you CAN'T,
Because guess what?
Pats on the back don't guarantee you a job,
And a "good work!" won't bring your Daddy home, kid.
So keep being mediocre, with your unoriginal ideas-
I just hope that you pray to Jesus,
Or Allah or whoever-the-fuck resides in the sky,
Because you're gonna need him.
I'm gonna need him.