I am the Christopher Marlowe of Illinois,
forever in the shadow of my Shakespeare.
I swear if I could resist it I would,
coincidentally though I cannot.
Over the hedge I see dead mice,
underneath me, or above me in their own labyrinths.
Little hints tell me soon I will be stuck in a maze of my own,
dull and discouraged like the beaten souls of the crayon makers.
Crying won't do me any good though, I'm already hopeless,
at one point I wasn't though. I had confidence.
Really I did, if you could believe it,
rhythm was in my blood.
Yours truly had a girlfriend, some sociality, and life was looking
young and exciting. I had a world in front of me ready to see me.
Or at least I thought the world would want me, out from
under the rubble of the small town I had been born.
Really I thought-      there was a small chance I could've been
loved, and respected and recognized as a person.
Over the feeling was in just a few months however,
vivid depressive episodes followed me through a dark tunnel.
Every corner was a face that I had abandoned, a person who
enveloped me in their love that I had destroyed, that I had lost.
Viciously abandoned like a newspaper after a quick skim,
energy drained from every action, every feeling.
Really, did you know I played the violin,
yes, I still have it in my room. I also played the dulcimer.
Where would I be able to play the dulcimer though, or the
hellishly repaired violin from my Grandfather?
Every string is in tune, it's a sad sight when the musician
refuses to play their instruments. It's always damaged pride.
Except in my case it was depression, anxiety, and scapegoating.
I was a chicken surrounded by foxes who I thought were my
wayward friends and fellow artists.
Overall the point of writing for me was to convey my thoughts,
unlike what I began at first though; I mostly enjoy confusing now.
Liam is my name. I'm also sometimes called Patrick, or William,
did you know that I'm Irish? Wow, you couldn't tell?
Before I was Irish I was an *******,
envious, from two doors down like a snake.
Quaint. I've lost my mind now, I can barely spell, it's
unbelievable how many times I misspelled "Quaint".
I almost think I'm attracted to misery, like it is the
tower at which I can extend my thoughts at the top.
Entry into my creativity is painful, it's
horrible I would say that every morsel of my mind is bored.
At least I'll die nonchalantly? I guess none of us are really worth
poem-ing on about. If you couldn't tell I'm running out the timer.
Poems need a rigid structure, a sound layout, and smart execution.
You should really read this acrostically now. See the irony of
                                                                                 post-modernsim.