A poem written under the deadline of, “finish this fucking poem before this Misfits song is over.”
When the clock is ticking you want to be good.
But how can you be good when you don’t have the time to think?
Guess you just have to hope for the best.
Now what kind of attitude is that?
Nobody wants their writing to “hope for the best.”
They want it to cut and kill
and leave mementos in its wake
to make sure nobody ever fucks with it again.
My whole outlook has changed
since I started this poem,
not bad at all for two minutes.