Boring, Vain Poem

Janice floats, and
her words steer.
Janice aches because society in venom.
Janice has a voice like Piglet.
Janice loves a woman; they went to the next state over
and married when it was legal.
Janice is little.
Janice thought I was vain; I am.
Janice inspires me.
Janice,
Janice,
Janice writes dull poetry
that aches and craves and spills
into the water like it were her blood,
when it isn't.
Janice is good at writing her dull poetry.
Better than I am at writing my vain poetry
that lacks the pity party and
has had a few too many drinks.
Janice is heavy on my mind
in these days where I figure out
what the hell I'm going to do
about this poetry affliction.
Janice could stand ten foot tall
if her words were blocks.
They'd be sturdy to stand upon.
Janice has black hair, night black, so
black it beams.
Janice has short black hair, and
conjunctions that hang like turbulence, and
that's where I got that annoying habit.
Janice has brown eyes, kind, and
annoyed.
Janice once made me read a poem aloud, because
it made me laugh when no one else did.
Janice wanted me to be better.
Janice was impressed with my handwritten, illustrated chapbook.
Janice knew that I was, am, still vain enough
to care that she was impressed with my handwritten, illustrated chapbook.
Janice will reach nirvana before me.