To a Muse, Who Uninspires the Poet

I have the teenager's knack

For saying idiot things around you.

You are like a black hole

For my eighteen remaining brain cells

That weren't killed in my misspent youth

(and boy, do I wish you'd been around for that?).

At least then, it would have been “cute,”

Or perhaps “age-appropriate.”

Instead, all I can do is write you bad meta-poetry.

Seriously, read this thing. It's awful.