Prosaic Ode to a Bad Poem

I had a middle-of-the-night word-attack, and it turned out to be poetry.  Apparently, very bad poetry.  Actually thought it was lyrics, which is new for me, but it was only bad, bad poetry.  My musical son-number-four smiled through reading it, bemused and perplexed.  This is never the reaction one hopes for when the story line is sad and slightly hopeless; then he told me he isn't good at composing music for pre-existing lyrics. 

So it seems I've come full circle.  I'm back to the maudlin, unstructured, somewhat strained angst-poetry of adolescence.  Yikes.  Of the very few things I would like to recapture from that time, bad poetry lies somewhere between "mutant psychopathic gym teacher" and "weird strung-out kid who tried to set people alight between classes with his bic."  I would have complained more about that kid and his creepy habit, but he was my cousin, so . . .

I told young son that I would try to shop these "lyrics" out to some other composer, but probably I'll just burn them in the dead of night.  While I watch the brief flames consume the paper, perhaps I can scare up some sympathy for my weird, fire-starting cousin.