Oh please, not sunshine and 'here I sit" blank-page laments Season-change ballads and idle-moment thoughts. My muses are all sedentary and lethargic, Only speaking up to demand another grape Fed from dangling fingers.
Sure, the sun is streaming nicely in the window And a reluctant spring has given way To summer-like days, as I sit and ponder. But the tropes and exclaims of 'excelsior!' Aren't going to cut it this time.
Gold-leafed chaises longues and silver goblets Are stacked haphazardly on the sidewalk A pile of plus-sized togae thrown into the mix A cardboard box of minstrels' greatest hits vinyl too. The bums are sent packing And my poem is concluded.
Middle-class, educated, better than all of you. The poet whines that the people he said were his friends were his friends. Too eager to stick it to the man, his sentences end where he pleases.
Not understanding, as his peers are hurt when insulted, he blames the age to which he was born of his troubles. He should have been born in the fifties. Absolutely nothing was wrong with the fifties.
Love is not a safe place. It is not the taste of their name coughed by the cancerous lung, drowning in overused metaphors. A lover is not a tool, to take you in and give you everything they have, to spew a 'better' person next year.
Death is not the endless peace, nor the bliss, nor the torture nor infinite void. It is the end, no matter how artistically short you write each line, and none of it mattered.
In which Edward is very white and probably a hypocrite.