BAD POETRY II

BAD POETRY II

A Poem by Jerome Malenfant
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Really, really bad poems

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My love is like a thing that goes

Up and down inside my toes;

It climbs around inside of me

And falls asleep in my ice tea.


My hate is like a flower that grows

And writes real bad, decrepit prose

That wilts the soul and perhaps the spirit

And borders often on incoherent.


My mind alas is quite insane,

A fact I need not more explain,

For I can see all things that be,

All things that were, all things to be.


I hear the voice of God all day;

He really doesn’t have much to say.

He says it’s so lonely at the top;

He talks all the time; I wish He’d stop.


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My tears they fall like lead balloons;

My angst, it doth so fill me.

I see but only gloom and doom.

I think I’ll go and kill me.


My sighs they echo through the night

I weep for all my sorrow;

I weep for my so wretched plight; 

I’ll weep till it be morrow.


I am accursed upon the Earth;

All do loath and shun me;

I am the butt of people’s mirth;

Even my cat makes fun of me.


I lie upon my tear-stained bed;

I lie there and weep until

I count up all the tears I’ve shed,

Then go and watch Doctor Phil.



© 2017 Jerome Malenfant



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Added on July 17, 2017
Last Updated on July 20, 2017