I taught my hand to write poems without having to get my brain involved, which really comes in handy (no pun intended) since I can watch a movie or read a book or something, and my hand is off creating poetry on its own.
Unfortunately, they’re not very good.
Here’s the latest one:
Your exquisite existence is truly excellent.
Misery leaves, right out the window, whenever your existence is pondered and wondered.
End the melancholy, and the uneasiness, and bask in the grace and one hundred percent moonlight of your face.
I already covered ending the misery, right? Completely gone.
Honestly, I’ve read better poems in Norway!
This one might be the worst poem of all of them, though:
Cries out, “Anger!”
And then is silenced by
The headlamp that I fling at it.
Or, I don’t know, maybe that one’s actually the best. Poetry can be so hard to judge, especially when no brain was involved in its creation.