My poetry is rather crappy It's not designed to make you happy

In fact it's rather the reverse Depressing and at times perverse.

Sometimes I like to make it rhyme And other times it feels just fine

To end with a non rhyming line Like this. Or that. Whatever.

I'd love to write all flowery But pretty words don't work for me

My eyes don't hear the jingly bells Or see the pretty fairy dells

I only write what I have seen The nasty and at times obscene.

I tell a tale of misery A tale of woe and poor poor me.

I wish that I were more poetic Less self obsessed, more empathetic

I'd write a dance for you my sweet Fill you with joy, a luscious treat

To playfully roll off your tongue A fruity sherbet of a song.

A tale of love and fun and laughter With words like happy, ever, after.

Fluffy clouds and bunny ears Instead of death, abuse and tears.

I write of sadness, childhood traumas Neglect, abuse and abject rawness.

Past and present both combined, ridiculously intertwined.

Scored into flesh for all to see The pain, the hurt and misery.

It isn't half cathartic though To write stuff down, to let it go.

To you it may seem self indulgent Such self pity, quite repugnant

But words once out and freely spoken Lose potency, the spell is broken.

It's when the words have not been said And torment rules inside your head

You can't make sense of all that sadness All that badness, all that madness.

And so I write, to free my brain Of overwhelming hurt and pain

It may not seem that way to you But it helps my mind to feel anew

To cast out bad thoughts, make more room For future joys, the sweet perfume

Of memories new, the next great chapter A hopeful happy ever after.