I wrote the same poem for thirty-one days

I wrote the same poem for thirty-one days
It didn't get any better
I washed it with sponges in all the right ways
It only got softer and wetter
I hooked up my poem to some wires and nodes
I harnessed the force of the storm
I put both my hands on my poem's clammy skin
And just for a sec it was warm
It shuddered and lurched for the door, looking drunken
It didn't seem grateful at all
Its fingers were fragile, its eyes were all sunken
It stumbled and started to crawl
I'm sorry poor poem I knew you were dead
I should have just left you to mulch
Now I'm out in the cold when I should be in bed
With my sins in the mud of the gulch