Bad Poetry

I've spent so much time trying to write a good poem, that I've ignored the possibility of BAD POETRY. Bad poetry, the soul speaks in cat-whispers, I meow one back, The garden bleeds living colour, I sprout something too, words, and if need be, rhyme, free as a bird- but not as verse, remaining free; so too the copycat found consonants of dead poet-kings: You're lost little girl, you're lost, tell me who are you? feign that you know what to do, impossible yes, but it's true you're spilling ink and in vain, there are strangers in your vein. And Poetry as 'pleasure' - has hundreds of possible people lost in sterile tissue. White paper, raped with black and red marks, ink scars, odd words, scrawls (hooded shawls for masked feelings), or bad poetry, as roses are red, violets are blue, the wind is empty, and so are you. Hollow as the inside of Russian dolls, but no layers, a pale balloon above the midnight ocean. Bad poetry can be a half-assed baloney sandwich on 9-grain rye, I am sad, I have a pearl in my eye, my cat is warm, her fur is fluffy as a pillow, I love my cat, but not enough to string two adjectives together or hint at the existence of two, mutual, HAIRY, souls. That's how I felt about my ex- girlfriend, she was ummm... pretty as a rose wilting in a 1950's prototype refridgerator set to "cool", slow... so slow. Hey mockingbird, can you teach me some good poetry? Echo nature in your warbling cry, and teach me not to mention birdsong when the forest is being tugged like a flea-ridden carpet right from under our feet. Habitat first, then habit. Google "bad poetry", then read a poem about fat people, and scoff- wow that's some good stuff. At least it's relevant, unlike the ivy crawling in your front yard, no one wants to hear about that! Or a poem that sounds like someone is talking, right? That's right Jim. I maintained a steady gaze at the window in the den, there was a small creaking sound and then the coroners were cleaning blood with vacuums and lye. Uncessary, completely unessary and poorly spelt uncomforming in letter disign, unforgivabull! ****, it's too long, introspective, neurotic, and not child like at all: Puffy clouds wake our family, mom gets up rubs her eyes, dad gets up and puts on pants, I glide down stairs, dreams in my hair, marshmellows in my cereal, and an apple like a baby in my knapsack, we go to school and the bus seats are comfy as my bed, but no, school sucks.