Bad Poetry
How many bad poems does it take to craft the one?
The one that will stick
to a reader, sweet and aromatic like the air of bakery;
honeyed words so early in the morning.
How many bad poems must bleed from the fingertips
of those who yearn to write romantically?
Those who crave the production of one piece of verse
which will evolve into something universal;
carried over generations — brisk and untouchable;
invisible airstreams of literary fervour.
Ejected thoughts sinking skyward.
How many lines must be toiled at —
ripped from the mind and scoured over
like an encrusted dish that’s been left to scab?
Remove the crust.
Chip away the bad.
Bad poetry is everywhere.
Pages filled, brimming over and busting at the seams.
Unsuccessful imagery.
Flat blows of ornamental language.
Bad poetry is in the way we text and speak.
The way we move through the world.
Bad poetry is universal and always.
How many bad poems does it take to craft the one?
And who chooses anyway?
