Look at me,
My dear friend,
Before you ask,
Make careful your observation,
Of what presents itself so obviously;
And obliviously,
My unriddling has its limits.
What do you call,
Someone who is doomed from the start?
A poet whose pen beats?
With ink bright red?
Who can only share his lived esotericities,
In phrase-twists and wordly ideas?
Language already half-cloaked,
Experiences always slightly out of reach?
But most outrageously laughable,
He still wants to share his broken prose,
A worldly venture,
My dear friend,
I am the failed poet.