There is something about the writing of poetry,
Especially the poetry so bad,
That it makes your heart weep to read,
And your mind despair.

There is something in the turn of a phrase,
One that is so atrocious,
That you can't bear to look away,
A bloody train wreck.

Exaggerate the feelings, make it more,
More than it really is,
More joyous than happy,
More grief-stricken than sad.

In your lonely little world,
You are allowed to wallow,
Exaggerate your loss,
No one is there to judge.

Every emotion, you may pour out,
In a singular verse,
Sometimes matching, sometimes flowing,
You need not stick to a rigid formula.

You may pour out your soul,
On a pristine white page,
Now coat it with ink,
Let go inhibitions,
Don't even dare to think.

When you come back to the line you have writ,
May you cringe in horror,
For the words are the truth,
That your mind felt.

And while you have changed,
Your words stay the same,
And the grammar is bad,
And some words are misspelt,
Just remember the feelings,
The emotions you felt,
When you wrote out your soul,
In bad poetry.