Hyper Schmyper!

I try so hard to please you sonnet nerds,
to give my lack of poetry disguise
as something that was written by the wise,
to soar with angels, flutter by with birds.

Then for the second verse I lose all speed
and ramble something, just to get a rhyme.
I compromise and camouflage my crime
in every silly syllable you read.

You ought to know by now; I won't succeed
to get a better poem done in time,
one that ain't about what it's about.

This is the kind of junk my brain-cells breed,
a pointless blob of green-ish gory slime
the world would do just mighty fine without.

I try to write some meaning to those words
and masturbate vocabulary lies.
My muse is hiding, but I hear her cries:
"Your typing fingers might as well be turds!"

Hey muse, you bitch, you didn't help me out!
So grow a fucking spine and wipe that pout.