I have no idea what I’m going to write,
Your guess is as good as mine.
I’m simply filling these lines with the thoughts that stream through my mind.
And write them on this screen and post them for you to later read –
Aren’t you fucking lucky.
Is this even a poem? It doesn’t rhyme.
How the fuck should I know.
God damn it, is this all I really have to say?
Just “hey, I’m writing a poem about how I don’t have any fucking clue what to put in this poem so I’m winging it.” What fucking bullshit.
I feel sorry for you. And for those who have the strength and courage to finish this thing, I commend you.
Maybe I should take pity on you and end this thing shortly or even abruptly.
And end this thing so soon? But we’re having so much fun!
I’m guessing you’re thinking oh, quite the contrary, you think you’re oh-so clever in being meta, but you’re really saying nothing at-all.
Everyone’s a fucking critic.
And oh no, you’re not getting off that easy.
You’re going to sit in that fucking chair and read this “stream of consciousness” nonsense until I say you’ve had enough.
If I edit this is it still stream of consciousness? And yes, I was just doing some editing – how very observant of you.
What you didn’t know is that last sentence was actually a fresh idea I just had not connected with the line “If I edit this is it still stream of consciousness?”
By the way, I still don’t have an answer to that question.
Isn’t it odd, knowing you’re reading this poem out of the order it was conceived?
You wouldn’t have any clue that I wrote these lines after I wrote the ending would you?
You stupid fucks. I pity you.
Most of all because you’re sick enough to be reading this.
Essentially a narcissistic writer stroking his ego saying, “whoo! Aren’t I unique? I bet no one has ever had this idea for a poem before. It’s so self-aware and witty. And I’m making everyone watch me stroke my psychological genitalia to boot!”
I know I’m getting off on this but what’re you getting out of it?
God damn it. I think I just ran out of steam.
Oh well, my Ego just came anyway. And after that apathy sets in just like a sexual ejaculation.
That line wasn’t there before just so you know – and neither was this one.
And I was so looking forward to rambling about this poem to you. Well what else can I write?
Fuck. (Yes, fuck is something I can write.)
I’m lettin’ you go.
But don’t you ever say I never did anything for you fuckers.
The Creative Ego comes and goes.
My mother used to say the same thing about her boyfriends.