Why is it, do you suppose
that in all my poetry and prose
my bleak soft mind putters out
silly words; made up, no doubt?
It should come as no surprise
that my work cuts out editors' eyes.
So riddled with my onomatopoeia ;
they say "I-want-to-see-no-more-of-ya"
Shredder blades are common sounds;
No long lasting work of mine abounds.
But despite their understandable rejection;
I continue horrid poetic self-reflection.