It seems to me that everyone cares about rain
How she is sad, peaceful, playful, and calm
They find so much meaning in a simple process
Just like the oceans and stars and snow and trees
Simple nature yet so so meaningful
Yes we should cherish them, but why worship them so?
We at least should praise the creator as well
Mona Lisa beautiful, but Da Vinci the true wonder
Just like Michelangelo’s David, La Pieta
Stuck in a museum, but their names said everywhere
Yes the waves are like time always flowing
And the different flowers of a garden a family
But we look too deep too far too much
How can a deeply complex person be so similar to a piece of wood or a rock?
Write whole paragraphs of the similarities of their hard, unmoving presence
Go on about the color, size, very feeling and cold temperature
Can’t a rock be a rock and a human a human?
We over-analyze the words of literature of literate genius
The very tools of a toolbox represent a whole family
Yes, but why? Who even cares?
The rain is powerful, oh—and so is love
But aren’t cars powerful? Horses? Batteries? Violence?
The moon is bright! But so is a light bulb or scared searching flashlight
We hear and say, we see and feel, but it’s all what we want to know
Connections made, yet they take the form of poetic words of beautiful images
The other truths ignored, simply because who likes looking and thinking of a car or garbage bin?
Instead we look to an ever powerful horse, a wooden bucket with gourd to scoop up the oh-so-refreshing pine scented water
Let me go grab a plastic cup and hold it impatiently to a faulty refrigerator
Why do so few write of the real?
Of real problems, ideas, morals?
Oh-love and accept everyone!
Hell no—exceptions really reign
I love to write, but to read those drowning in clichés; oh please pull me out of these waters of repetition
I wish some person would be real, but for now
I suppose it’s left to me
I wrote this after reading "As I Lay Dying" in school and the meaning and symbolism my English teacher found in it, which I often disagreed with. Basically my frustration with unoriginal and cliche-loving writers also. Hence, I dedicate this to my 11th grade English teacher.