I cannot defend my lack of years my lack of tears my lack of guilt I will always regret the tears and sweat that I've put upon your face For it is a disgrace the things I've done the thoughts I've thunk the things I've done to you When I killed that man in the cabbage patch at half-past 3 am When I killed that man that I knew you loved that I, too, loved that I knew was marked for greatness When I killed that man with a knife to the heart with a mind full of rage with a mind ablaze with many a myriad thought I could almost say it was jealousy (i know that I cannot) I could almost say it was hatred or spite (but i know that I cannot) I could even say it was impulse to slay that man who I knew and who knew not what he wrought (but still this thing that i want to say-- i know but one thing: say it, I cannot) For it was not calculated nor can I say that I hated that man, though I often berated him for things that control them? He could not. For the reason that I did all these things that I did was simple in the extreme was harder to digest than powdered ice cream And even I could give you a ream of paper to show the things I did of paper to show you these things that I did of paper on which to pour out my sin of paper, cathartic, explaining my doing of paper, incredible, pure white and blank, and innocent, available, asking me to taint it An I could give you a billion words to explain all the pain which I caused I could give you only two NO REASON.
Lots of repetition don’t help this poem. It also lacks metaphor, mental images, juxtaposition. The sentences are too blunt without sophistication. This reads like a journal entry, you should put more work on something that is intended for public consumption.
Bonus tip: try writing smaller poems.