Never, ever, should you write a poem about writing a poem.

Set your words inside a box,
twist your pen to open locks.

The concept just does not work. Maybe writers have held the mistaken belief that the best way to get around a writer’s block is to write about that block. This follows the same logic as the best the way to get out of a hole is to dig further.

Cover white with black and red,
let your words find a bed.

No one wants to read about your inability to write. No gallery-goer would want to see an exhibition on the inability to paint. A few sloppy brush strokes dribbled onto the canvas, awaiting the muse to come and give them shape. It rankles of patheticness.

Dig with your pen to get them out,
show the world what you’re about.

Honestly, it’s embarrassingly for everyone involved. The reader cringes that the writer found himself having to resort to such tripe in the first place; while the poet should be ashamed to display such meaningless garbage as literature. There’s an element of egotism here- the thought must be, ‘if I have written it, then it is worth public consumption’.

Shut that box, strip the bed,
wait ‘til sparks strike instead.

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