Fuck you, poem. You’re not good enough
not clever enough
not beautiful enough
to make my point
change the world
win her love.

Why couldn’t you be better, poem?
Why couldn’t you have been written
with more goodness baked in the lines?
Wouldn’t it be better
if you were more lyrical
more mellifluous
more potent,
you stupid fucking poem?

Fuck you.
Why didn’t you improve yourself
while I was writing you?
Why didn’t you get fixed
when I edited you?
Didn’t you know what I was getting at
when I wrote you down?

Fuck you, poem.
I hate you
and I’m never reading you
when you’re published in my folio.