Filth From Flowers

When I write I can never seem to express what I really mean. Sometimes I hate my poems...

Words are beautiful. Wonderful. I can do them no justice.
All I can do is just stand there and piss.
The words I write are disgusting. Never what I mean.
Grotesque. Starving. Bones bulge. This notebook is so lean.

A meadow of words. Phonoesthetic flowers. Every letter is a colour.
A garden in my mind. I pick a letter and it turns to gore.
The letters I spell together rot. Decoposition. Disgusting.
No words describe what I write. It becomes an unspeakable thing.

I write and write and rhyme and write. It does no good.
Im not cut out for this. My pen doesn't do what it should.
Everything my pen touches. My infected pen. All dies.
My words are just not enough. Poetry. My truths are lies.

Its spreading. My disese infects the words. SIckness.
I write sickness. The meadow is rotten. Its my fault. I wrote this.
This s**t I write. This garbage. This dying s**t I write for hours.
Touch of death. I murder. Slaughter. I make filth from flowers.

Author's Note

What do you think!