A dark, cramped room
Is where I lay,
Typing on my journal
And using Enter needlessly.

It doesn't matter
What I type here
Because making sure
That the text is under
Three inches wide
Makes me sound deep.

I don't have to rhyme
Nor do I follow patterns
Because as long as
The internet exists
I become a master poet.

Using Enter again here.

As well as here.

Nobody can feel the pain
In my strobe light soul
Because of the billions
Of lifeforms who have
Existed before me,
You are supposed to think
That I am somehow unique
In what I experience.

Carriage returns.

Give me a stainless razor
And let it gracefully kiss
The tip of my damaged skin
But not deep enough
To appear as little more
Than a simple papercut
Because that is true emo.

Using Enter again.

I paid a carpenter
To build a coffin
Just my size.
I put a pillow in it
As well as a blanket
So that I may sleep there.
I'd like to close the lid
But I'm not strong enough
To open it up again
And I don't want to die
Because the world would
Surely miss my inane
Ramblings about wishing
I were dead.

I also drew a pentagram
Upon my breast.
Yes, I have breasts
Because my testicles
Do not produce enough
Required testosterone.
My body art keeps demons
From inhabiting me.
Or maybe it invites them.
It depends on what book
You read that describes it.
You can find them for $3
In the garbage collection
Of any novelty shop.

"Enter" "Enter" "Enter"

I engaged in a night of
Steaming passion with
My imaginary lover.
I dug into her neck
To feast upon crimson blood.
She whispered softly...
"Get away you creep.
I only wanted to know
If this milk was expired."
I can't even get laid
In my dreams.

I want you to reply now
And suck up to me about
How my poetry is good.
The freedom of speech
Is only important
As long as it is something
That I wish to hear.
Tell me that you dislike it
And I shall claim that
You are constricting
My creative juices
And that you know nothing
Of true poetry.