I thought I was a genius when I was 16.
I would write something like:
“Absurd slurred words are blurred, heard then transferred.”
Always changing his mind and values.
Now I hate words that rhyme.
I hate lines that flow in time.
What I like now is unnecessarily long sentences that just seem to look out of place.
Are all welcome.
To read and judge.
I don’t give a fudge.
Although I think it will just be me seeing this.
So what’s the point?
Bip bap a roo.
Do do, do you?
Don’t know how to end this.
Something that links to the first part of the poem.
I don’t know.
16 year old me would know.
He would know the perfect thing to say to tie it all up.
That guy was a genius.
We are sorry for the delay, somebody will be with you shortly.
On hold again, to the bank.
My career is on hold.
Studying for a job I don’t want.
Because I need to be good at something.
I’m good at being on hold, but know one needs me for that.
How can I help you?
I hate hearing it, and I hate saying it.
You can help me by not answering, leave me on hold.
At least I can do nothing and still be working.
When you answer I have to speak. When I speak it reminds me I have a shit job.
And don’t call me.
You don’t want my help anyway.
I’m very sorry for answering your call.
For taking you off of hold.
I like to write in pencil.
I must never show my mistakes.
Everything must be perfect.
But I can’t erase my fat belly.
Just Tipp-ex it with a t-shirt.
It isn’t ready for publishing.
You can’t judge the book if the book has no cover.
And no words.
When I speak nothing my words can’t be wrong.
Silence is almost perfect.
And so is my haircut.
Under my hat.