(For National Poetry Month I am writing a stream-of-conscious poem per day. Each poem is  a spontaneous poem single edit – could get messy!  Here is Poem #7.)

I thought I was a poet,
with voices inside my head.
Words whispering that they,
must be born in ink and read.

Each excruciating verb,
forceps forced from my dark space,
where imagination writhes,
spawning ooze plopped into place.

In my delusion I shared;
blogging rancid blubberings.
Filling virtual pages,
with my puerile scribblings.

A few stunned by the horror;
of lyric verbal abuse;
tried as good samaritans,
to give me critical proofs.

I dismissed their kindness,
as deluded oppression
of my artistic blooming.
This poem my confession.

I am a blathering fraud:
a wordsmithing charlatan.
The foul stench I excrete
best left to be worm-eaten.

Gratefully and thankfully,
no-one stays to read these words.
Wisely instead they walk away
towards sweeter sounding chords.

This is my apology.
Too late; the horses long gone.
Still in all it is my best:
all else I’ve written is wrong.