Bad poetry I wrote as a teenager, Volume XIV

Not even a pounding migraine will keep me from posting bad poetry for y'all. That's some motherfucking dedication, that.

Anyway, this is so craptastic I'm glad to be home with a pounding head, where people cannot point and laugh. It has no story behind it, save for me being a 14-year old retard with a thesaurus and too much angst. An interesting side note, though. When I went to college, I brought all the bad poetry with me so I could periodically review and, you know, hone my craft. On the back of the poem I'll be posting when this tangent is done, was a web address for a picture of a guy I'd met in a chat room and carried on an Internet flirtation with freshman year, because when the roomie and I weren't smoking pot or watching The Weather Channel, we were trolling chat rooms. This is the guy, who, if I remember correctly, was pretty cute in addition to being like, really smart and stuff.

So. The poem. Here goes.

Wound tightly in a fetal ball
Agitated metaphors dripping from my nose
My voice, a screaming sonnet
Ringing whispers through my brain
I am a poem.
My hair is crimson ink
Oozing from a quail feather's end
The similes slide off my eyelids
Like a mine of fresh black diamonds
I am a poem.
Rhyme schemes tapped with an ink-stained finger
Stanzas bruised into my legs
Iambs ripped from my throbbing head
My soul, twisted into a written symphony
And I am a poem.

Here's Volume XIII.