F*ck Poetry

The forest is thick with verbiage, I try to shout out  my thoughts, my feelings, my meaning, but all that comes out are words, words tangling in themselves, like branches in an overgrown forest, or weeds, knotting and throttling flowers. My thesaurus is ravaged as I seek the perfect word, I desire to capture every possible nuance of my thought, but in doing so all I manage to capture is a list of words. My prose is no more lucid than a dictionary, a list of random words on a page.   What have I written? I am Frankenstein, and my writing is my monster. My freaky, inhuman, twisted, distorted monster.   Fucking words. Why can’t you do your job? Just get across my meaning. Don’t be clever, don’t fuck around rhyming, scanning, making assonasholic sounds, what do you think I am a fucking snake?   Just say what I want to say.   Just tell the fucking story.   Don’t clog and cling, don’t oversweeten the meaning,sickly-sweet wordplay destroying my art, like honied fingers fucking around with the Mona Lisa.   Is there even any meaning there, or is it all just words?   Why do I even bother?