Fantasy and a "sonnet" on my stupid class experience or Please forgive me and never mind the "poem".

Boy, am I lacking in talent and ability. If you read this, do whatever you want, but insulting me. That hurts.

Oh boy, am I just a piece of nothing?

Falling into many breathless voids

Senseless jargon carved into the wall

of a pit of humans devoid. Moving

are the cryptic mud-carved lonely words:

“I am simply nothing of a poet.”

 

While those pale worms, blind as they may seem,

get stuck into my hands, uninvited,

get deep into my mouth, despised,

--are those gunshots? I´ve never s’one trim

their outnumbered bodies in lead"                   [full of red]

So many of them, they’ve come to eat.

 

Amidst the havoc, why am I writing?

While poor and dead and tortured, silent,

Mercilessly hit by Fortune’s trident…           [that’s silly]

Can I remain oblivious  to the crying?

“Fortune”, ha! Ever such a damn excuse:

a maddening burden and a saving truce.

 

Between distant, merry , bad rhyming

gerunds are put on a dashingly bad

imperfect quartet, nonsensical lines                          [that’s not even accurate]

-- two lines--and bad verse, and  useless whining,

come over the sun lit blinds, in my room,

passing about this idle afternoon.

 

Maybe there’s more than thought t’class resentment.

Trodden trodden little sympathies of old.

“I am very, very poor. Where are you from?”

For your suffering  there’s a clear commencement:

 

It’s the badge you wear at your such humble birth,

that so you trim with your disadvantages.

I think it’s unfair: not a coin of vantage

There’s in conceited despair:  but money, death…

 

So spoiled it gets to be either rich or poor.

Unfriended are those who are neither living

over golden beads, or in the rainy moor.

 

But it gets kind of lonely, I mean, you know…

It might be much of an imaginary

mugging, this guy  that’s pointing at me his air [gu… GOD! Its real!]

 

[I just puked when I got home/ Better not to think at all.]