The Death of a Poem

Dear Poem:

You wretched thing, you horrid waste

You are way too long and terribly paced

You despicable misuse of perfect space

You are nothing special, and disturbingly plain

Allow me to rid myself of this abominable pain:

I'd rather spit fire than retire and waste my brain cells on this poem.

I'd rather swallow cinnamon than be written in this poem.

I'd rather pull out a tooth than suffer my youth on this poem.

I'll crumble your ashes into the wastebasket

I won't spend time preparing you a casket

This is the death of a poem, never to be told

Your words are cold, and- if I may be so bold,

You old thing! Your alliteration stinks

Like the Titanic, your ship will sink

Your stupid, stinky words will submerge

From this place you will finally be purged

I hope that this all goes down in flames

And I'd rather enjoy if you were maimed

Your ink, like blood, spilled across paper

I'll spare you the gore, we'll get to that later

Buried and soiled your soul will spoil

There in that place you will bring me no toil

I will remember you for nothing at all

The poem to whom I will never call my friend

You are about to meet a murderous end

This is the death of a poem, never writ

And might I add, you are a piece of shit

You won't hear a Buzz, not even when you die

At least Emily Dickinson heard a Fly, maybe you might cry

But I, dearest poem, I will say nothing but goodbye.