No name #1.

You're so half-arsed

with your half-rhymes;

why can't you be like Wordsworth

half the time?

Consistency is made

through being consistent,

my boy.

Your hackneyed phrases

and your leant-on words

do you no favours,

but neither does using

the unfamiliar.

You misread,

so you mis-write;

wake up!

You're losing sight.

How can something so familiar

become so alien

with time?

You start

and soon don't know when to stop.

The clock won't do you any favours.

You begin to tire of this train of thought;

to use a metaphor:

its wheels are shaking with loose bolts.

Goodnight.

I might write you soon,

poetry.

Goodnight.

P.S. Give my regards to all your

dead brothers and sisters,

and all the ones that will never

receive life,

and all the ones that wait for

well-deserved light.