I am not creative, I am not a poet. I
Know it, I hate it, I\'m not even close. It
Makes me disgraced when I show it, this
Poem I make, it may flow, but to
No one relates, only races in relays and
Makes figure eights when it roams on these
Pages where it traces over these phrases it\'s
Known then renamed them and claimed as it\'s
Own. This penmanship knows no erasers, so
Greatness of language that\'s taken from famed ones is
Shown and I\'m languished with hope that my patrons will
Say that I\'m dope and a favorite, and have faith in
My name, but nope, that ain\'t it. I\'ve gained just a
Slippery slope to anguish. The language I
Play with will show me no praises. The phases I
Go through will know lonely roads roaming aimless with
Poetry wasted on those with no names and no
Taste for the way that I make it my own, til I
End up only to hate it.