I'm the sort that forgets everything just to get a few shitty lines down, impending and barely-prepared for legal theory exam included.
(I) Wannabe (a) Writer
You know you can't write a good line.
Yet you try in futility.
Exhaustion drips from the fatigued contours of these words,
Wearing weariness on their emaciated bodies like a second skin.
(You're) Not a once-was, not even a has-been, but
You choke on the words that can't find their way out
Stumble over vague ideas of poetry,
failed attempts at getting it right,
lines after lines of tragic excuses for the barest resemblance to
that highest form of art.
And it burns pretty badly because you jumped
right into the fire
along with the notebooks in which you scribbled these words, year after year
(their incompetence and self-importance turn your stomach,
make you ill, your hand instinctively reaching
for that gun)
it burns and it burns and then it singes
But it doesn't hurt at all.
What a release! Because if you can't do it well
You shouldn't do it at all.