This morning's prompt on The Poetry School website was towrite a bad poem. Luckily I have years of experience to draw from.
A complete list of the themes covered in my poems between the years 2007 – 2010
suggesting not one
had yet made it to puberty
drunk in a capacity to worry my mother.
usually spent inexplicably naked
but only metaphorically
just in case my mother was reading.
An exhaustive exploration
of my sadness
my melancholy sorrow
all the nights I’d lie awake and think of
my direct address
as subtle as a Facebook status
aimed at ‘some people’
because I was at university now,
I’d compare my
drunk, sad, naked self
to the last falling petal
of a dying rose.