For ten years I did not write,
Ten years stolen from me.
Someone else used them
And I want them back.
I’ll give up the ten years
I said I was a writer
To whomever needs that instead
God, this is fucking terrible
Terrible poetry here.
Not an ounce of feeling
Or effort.
Fuck,
It pisses me off.
This dribble
This meandering
Bukowski
Maddox
Lawrence
They would laugh at you,
Tell you
To keep the numbers job.
You’re not breaking
Any new ground here.
These are words.
Substance starved.
Wheres the blood?
Well done.
You’re an insta-poet.
Writing in milk
And honey.
Shallow.
Thoughtless.
-
Author:
Kenny O'Donnell (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: January 23rd, 2026 02:26
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 7
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments1
A poem most identifiable that questions the motives and even the value of the author and challenges him to break new ground of give up. It is a bold challenge and not one that I would agree with but it has force and maybe enough to raise the hackles on the dog. A fave
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