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.