Prompt: Write the cringiest poem you can. Channel your inner fifteen-year-old—you're sad and angsty in your bedroom because nobody understands you, your crush doesn't like you back, and it's raining gloomily outside. Do not hold back.

Oh, oh, woe is me,
Must I suffer for an eternity?
I shall release these feelings
through the faint tapping of my keyboard—
which isn't even real
like my crush liking me back.
I shall write deep thoughts—
I'm so philosophical—
and press enter at
random
intervals
because
poetry
is like broken spaghetti
and I'll pretend that means something.
Where was I again?
Oh yes.
I am poetry:
the world doesn't get me
and thinks I'm useless
and better off broken
because that's all they've ever seen of me.
Some try to make reason and rhyme of me
and others don't always do.