The last idea I had for a poem was really bad
so I trashed it.
I just up and deleted the concept
because it wasn’t going anywhere good.
I decided to abort.
I killed my baby
and I did it for you
since you wouldn’t appreciate it.

My poem is dead
by my hands
with you as my able accomplice.
You’re welcome;
I hope you’re happy.

I know that all art
is a conversation
between creator and adoring audience
and if I’m not successfully communicating something
that you’re willing to take in,
I will have failed.
I understand the contract between us
and I respect it
but my child is still born
and it is your fault
with your limitations
and fucking imbecility
and – just…
fuck you all.
Fuck everything.