Regret.

Throughout my vast, illustrious writing career of twelve years, eleven of which have been unduly forced upon me by cruel, apathetic teachers/drill sergeants, there has been a single piece of literature that I have created that has caused cascades of self loathing, frequent recurring nightmares and general disgust; I must confess, I wrote an emo poem once. Just once. And I deeply regret it with the entirety of my being. To define an emo poem, it is the type of poem written by people with porcupine hair, who are allergic to sunlight and generally spend twenty-two of the twenty-four hours of the day brooding. The other two are for styling their hair. It is a poem drenched in whininess, purposeless, and will guarantee to make a person’s day worse.
This assignment is an attempt to find any redeeming factor, anything I learned from writing something I am so ashamed of. First and foremost, I learned to never write after a catastrophic Valentines Day. Secondly, I will never write a poem in the dark ever again. Lastly, before I scrub the rest of this experience from my memory, I learned poetry should be used to convey a significant image or concept, not to rant. That’s what a blog is for.
What is emo poetry worth? Very little. It can be a good example for what poetry should never resemble. It serves as a voice for not for those without a voice, but those who should never be heard. It’s useful for making a horrendous day incrementally worse. It is a good/horrifying experience for a writer; it is incredibly self-revealing, the more one actually begins to seriously write like an angry adolescent is when one should find a new profession. However, if taken in jest, it is a wonderful tool to scare relatives.