I write

Open the mind and see where it goes
To places unseen by others outside
Even to those who stand by my side,
Wandering throughout many verses and prose.

Overachieving to try and impress
Those who don't care about what they read
Not fulfilling any desire or need,
With passages dull, lacking finesse.

Tormenting all who have to endure
Banal writing that's completely mundane
Boring to the point that it's insane,
A terrible sickness that has no cure.

Pointless debate that dominates the life
Of an even more pointless writer
With no chance for a future that's brighter,
Suffering painful, pathetic strife.

This all takes on an air full of spite
Transforming into a grotesque shape,
A delusional form of escape,
But still for some sad reason, I write.