Packing it in

Modern poetry stinks,
It makes me nauseous
Until my guts hurt.
And I'm ready to spew.
Narcissistic self indulgent,
Belly button staring,
Woe is me,
Victim Delusional
Middle class angst.

My eyes bleed,

Only to turn back the clock,
To unread them poems.
About hard nipples and scrawny cocks
No rhythm no rhyme,
No function no form,
Oh were all to cool for that,
Puking words upon the page.
As if the reader will try and digest
The contents of their emptiness
I had enough,
No I don't want know about your
Shitty childhood,
And how hard them teenage years
Were,
If truth were told fundamentally I don't care,

So I will leave my scribbling for another year
Another decade another lifetime.