"melodramatic" poems
can you ***** my finger and measure the dopamine in my veins? collect my teardrops and tell me if i'm going to be okay? can you light up the darkness with magical pills?
decide if i'm too sad to go to school?
can you tell me if i'm just being melodramatic? measure my blood pressure, maybe that will work. write me a prescription for 5 Happy Days in a row, and 3 hugs from Someone I Love.
doctor, doctor
i'm not feeling well today
doctor, doctor
i don't know if i should stay
sadness isn't a sickness, but it's infected my mind. can you write me some antibiotics to get them out in time?
sadness isn't sickness, but i think i might've caught something from doing a little too much of Having No Friends. don't you know how much i've been Laying In Bed?
sadness isn't sickness, but i think i'm coming down
doctor, doctor
i've got a severe case of the I Don't Want To Lives
can you write me a prescription?
make it go away?
doctor, doctor
you've let me down this time
doctor, doctor
i'm not in my prime
can you tell that i'm not healthy?
'cause i don't think you can
oh, sadness isn't sickness,
but it's fatal,
if all goes according to plan
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 2:07 AM UTC
Sad because you feel too much
Or mad because you can't feel a thing.
Greener grass beckons,
And you wave to it longingly.
Love the rise,
Hate the fall.
Melodramatic monotone of monotony.
Perishable Plateau.
Whisk me away into infinity.
Dead on arrival.
Dead to the world.
Dead as a doornail.
Stuff me back inside my body
Like clothes in a suitcase.
I fit. I promise.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 7:56 PM UTC
i’ve never had feelings for anyone who could be good for me. i’ve never been interested in someone where a good, healthy relationship could’ve resulted, and maybe that’s why i’m so jaded, because everyone i’ve ever liked has just been a distraction or a house on fire— someone i know i shouldn’t be involved with, but i’ll give myself just a few more days to run around frantically with my hands over my eyes, peaking through the cracks between my fingers, searching for things i know i don’t really need, and then i’ll dash out and run down the driveway and the smog will linger for a little while, and the neighbors will complain, and i’ll sit on the curb with my forehead on my knees, holding nothing but intangible regret. next, i’ll either get over it, or obsessively think about him and the ashes smudged on the inside of my eyelids for longer than my sanity. i’ve never really liked someone and been able to daydream about the real possibility of us turning into something greater; of tire swings and painted mailboxes and overgrown, green lawns. it’s always been pretending and fake hope and melodramatic doom. i think it’s messed up my perception of having feelings for someone, because i can never take it seriously— either i know he’s not right for me, or i know the circumstances prohibit the possibility of us. it makes me never want to give anyone a chance (i can’t even see anyone worth chance-giving) because i know how it ends. i don’t like having this closed off heart so early on; i’m too young to be this bitter.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 10:10 PM UTC
Tiger, Tiger they all called him.
Faces marked with smiles grim.
Office buzzed with word tiger, tiger.
He was one but many they were.
Full day continued insincere flattery.
End of month 'twas, day for salary.
Then story took melodramatic turn.
Like tiger he moved, demeanor stern.
Outright he announced party that night.
Everyone attended in clothes bright.
They gossiped, danced and dined.
Happily they all boozed and wined.
He sat like a tiger circled by coterie;
And the total bill was half the salary.
I looked through magnifying glass;
And saw pack of wolves and an ***
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 6:32 AM UTC
Go to class, Grace.
Take your medication, Grace.
Learn to deal with your emotions, Grace.
Try to stay positive and it will all get better, Grace.
Why aren't you trying hard enough, Grace?
Why are you so quiet, Grace?
What's wrong, Grace?
I do everything. I call a psychiatrist, I take my medication, I try to hold myself together and be positive and strong and admirable. I do everything a little good girl should do. I don't listen to impulses, I stay quiet until I can't help but cry, I hold myself by threads until I can't hold on anymore.
Obviously I'm not trying hard enough. Obviously I'm being melodramatic. Obviously this is my fault.
Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 1:00 PM UTC
How do you think
Those mismatched socks feel
When you pull them
From the dryer.
Do they know that they will
Never see their match again
That they will always be
Half of an equation.
Do they know that
They have lost their purpose
Never to be regained.
When you pull that single sock
From the dryer
Does it understand
That it will never be complete again.
Sometimes
I feel
Like the mismatched socks.
But then I remember
That I am melodramatic
They are just socks
And someday
I will find my other sock
I will find you.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 12:04 PM UTC
I am so sick of love.
Loyalty, honesty, dedication, compassion, compromise, for better or for worse (when it's always worse)!
I am so sick of love, and all the drama that accompanies it.
Most of all what makes me absolutely ill, in a brain and heart exploding in anger and disappointment respectively, kind of way,
are the Lies!
"You're all I want", "I need you", "I need a friend", "I still love you", "I will always love you", "Is there any chance?", "Can we get back together?",
all the attention seeking, melodramatic, time-consuming crap!
Followed by guilt. That nauseous feeling of, what if? What If? WHAT IF?
Was it the right thing? Will I find another? What about the broken heart?
The sleepless nights of pondering how to end things, the poems written and unpublished, the practising in front of the mirror, cigarettes to channel the guilt elsewhere...
For crying out loud!
After years of guiding me, I should have given way more credit to my instincts.
And now for the new chapter. Embracing an old art, new to me. Currently so underrated and misjudged by priests, mothers and newly-weds.
The philosophy of zero expectations to infinite pleasure and everything in between.
No regrets, no time wasted (and hell was my time wasted on you!#$#$#$).
Time to give up my soul to the darkness, (God, I hope you'll understand I still love and believe you, but I prayed and prayed. I can't wait any more!) and my body to the sailor boy!
Absolutely No Strings Attached.
No bull **** no promises, just *** (and cuddles), a lot of *** (and waking up next to him?)
Anyway, NO STRINGS ATTACHED! [Except for the invisible, really strong one. He is irresistible after all and I'm a dreamer who never, ever learns, and follows her instincts way too much!]
One thing's for sure.
I am so profoundly sick of love!
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 6:04 PM UTC
-Light up a cliche under a streetlight
while singing "the Star Spangled Banner"
and receiving oral from a trans-woman.
**** in the drive-thru of an Arby's.
-Fist fight a bear that people
find much uglier than myself.
Made a bucket list of ****
I think might be legitimately worth doing;
haven't run it by my girlfriend yet.
Speaking of which,
she deserves a round of applause
for dealing with my melodramatic ********
-Strike a police officer,
after robbing a bank with a water pistol.
I wanted to call her to let her know
I'd chased a bird till it crossed the street
and tweeted at me in anger or excitement.
Flipping the bird "the bird", I shouted,
**** YOU BIRD!"
and continued home.
-Throw a rock at a train.
-Toss a Molotov Cocktail at a moving car,
and cook a hot dog in the flames.
She deserves a million dollars
and a ******* Nobel peace prize.
-Call one of those panhandling
money worshiping televangelists
a **** bird, and offer them to ****
themselves [the ugliest people I can think of].
-Wear a habit over a burka.
I don't believe in souls, soul mates,
anything supernatural or special,
but I love that woman,
and that's why I believe in love.
-Not die alone.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 12:51 PM UTC
Sun slits in through slats
of kitchen window blinds
and she is alone.
The art major is cooking
spaghetti,
pretending her thrifted T-shirt
bearing a cotton copy
of Campbell's Soup Cans
is not stained with tears and blood.
Oh, but that's hysterics and
hyperbole;
art has a tendency of making its worshippers
melodramatic...no?
The blood is only tomato sauce
and the tears...
well, what are tears but
water and salt?
After all, dramatizing the
mundane is just one awkward shade
of artistic temperament.
Visualizing life through
a heavy silk screen.
The art major sighs and
stirs.
The spaghetti is redder and
redder as she cooks.
Just as
her paintings bleed more blood
as she dangles a brush over them -
the teary-eyed watercolours.
The art major has decided
that drawing out extremities
of colour
might transform
her own life into
a pop of a Warhol painting.
The art major sighs and
stirs.
She thinks, tries to
think
in technicolour.
Today's thought-pencilled thesis
concludes (like a brush stroke of uncertain finality) that
love is the red of tomato soup cans.
Anger is the boil, passion is
the gulp,
danger, caution, warning,
the hot breaths, fleeting warmths,
the burn and sweet and tang.
She looks down at the
scarlet of
Warhol's soup cans,
blooming in worn out cotton
on her chest.
It might as well be blood, she
thinks.
It is,
it is,
it is.
Blood red love -
tomato soup cans.
Sun sets in slits
through kitchen window blinds
and she is still alone.
The art major sighs and
stirs.
The spaghetti is ready.
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 6:41 AM UTC
I love the winter
-- oh how I love the cold.
The numbing temperature is morphine to my soul.
Rushing through my veins, turning my blood to ice
A natural drug; my only sense of sanity, my demonic vice
And it frees me.
I love the winter,
and all its melodramatic glamour.
There's a sheen of romantic sadness when church bells clammor
I love the winter;
-- it's when I came out of the Cave.
Saw the Truth for what it was,
and wrote it down page by page.
Leave me with the snow;
I want to hear the church bells
ring.
-lf-
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 11:15 AM UTC
if words are food for the mind,
then here is a glimpse of mine
if words are drugs for the brain,
then here is why i'm so pained.
abandoned, abhorrent
abnormal, absent
abstract, abuse
addicted, anxious
betray, bitterly
blank, blasphemy
bloodless, breakdown
breathless, brutal
captive, casually
catastrophe, cautiously
change, cigarettes
crucial, clueless
damaged, dangerous
deadly, disastrous
disheartened, disconcerting
dramatic, dreading
eager, eccentric
ecstasy, eerie
effete, effortless
embittered, excess
faded, failure
faintly, fallacy
faltering, fatally
fearfully, finally
garbage, gawky
gibberish, gloomy
gone, goodbye
graphic, gratify
hallucinate, harshly
hazy, heartless
hectic, helpless
hesitant, hit-and-miss
idiotic, idly
ignorant, intimacy
illogical, imaginative
infatuated, intoxicated
jealousy, jittery
journey, journal
joylessly, judicial
junk, juvenile
keen, killing
knavish, knocking
knockout, knotty
knowingly, knowledge
laborious, lacking
lame, languishing
lifeless, literature
lovelorn, lugubrious
madness, maintenance
make-believe, malaise
mean, melancholic
mellow, melodramatic
naff, naivety
nameless, naturally
nauseous, nebulous
neglected, nervous
oasis, objectionable
obliged, obliterate
oblivion, obscurity
obsolete, one-and-only
pacifist, pained
pale, panicky
paradise, paralyze
passionately, passively
raging, ranting
rationalize, raving
realistic, reasonable
rebellious, reckless
saboteur, sadness
sake, sameness
sanity, satisfactory
scar, steady
taint, tangled
tasteless, tearful
telling, temperamental
terror, theoretical
unaffected, uncanny
uncommon, unconsciously
undesirable, uneasy
unfortunate, untidy
vaguely, vanish
vanity, vanquish
versatile, vicious
violence, voracious
waiting, waking
walkout, wanting
wasteful, weary
withering, wrecking
if words are food for the mind,
then you've seen a glimpse of mine
if words are drugs for the brain,
then no wonder i'm so pained.
-djs
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 11:21 PM UTC
I feel like
I've been deflated.
And it's melodramatic
but I'm a little heartbroken, too.
Because in my head
I built us a future
and I knew all these details
I shouldn't have.
It seemed right,
completely perfect,
and I was ready for some fairytale
ending.
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 11:57 PM UTC
Black oil,
Tarnished the white sands of a paradise that is,
No longer a paradise,
Because no matter how much you try to clean it up,
It will always be a shade darker than it used to be.
Not fully regaining its color.
The thick molasses no longer holds it together,
Africa, seems broken beyond repair.
Diamonds don't shine as bright as Rihanna suggested.
Instead they glow red,
With the blood stains of the innocents,
Slaughtered for wedding rings.
Bullets...
Cutting into the flesh of my ancestors,
Like those very diamond cutting into glass,
Because what is life compared to,
A piece of rock?
There is a pseudo-melodramatic darkness that,
Echoes off of every piece of light they reflect.
Sitting only on the fingers and necks
Of the people who can afford them,
As fingers and necks were chopped and severed for them.
I am unable to identify with the cries that still manage to,
Resonate within the wind,
Apparently...
I am the only one that can hear it.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 2:26 PM UTC
Twenty-three years now and the same sun rises
along the rim of a big blue sky with layered clouds.
A myriad of kaleidoscopic colors leaks through
surrounding me with nostalgic warmth.
Remembering everything that brought me here.
That sticky, unbearable Texas heat
whirling in the wind of a summer afternoon.
Sleeveless dress, sunburnt skin, watermelon smile.
Five years of beauty growing into a thin young girl
who wanted to learn about everything,
Shifting into the youth of an actress in an over-the-top
melodramatic performance at a local theatre.
Selling art and collecting coins to travel
across our globe, and then,
my first plane ticket to Vietnam.
Nineteen came dressed in bittersweet wanderlust.
Packed my bags and drove my car to Portland, Oregon.
Four cameras, disheveled notebooks, ink-stained hands.
Those tall forest trees of enchantment,
a photographer's dream.
Traveling down the west coast to desert lands:
Seattle, San Francisco, Santa Fe.
Somewhere in there I ended up sleeping beneath the stars
with a belly full of wine in Alaska.
The summer solstice singing me a song while tears brim up my eyes
because the world has never looked more lovely.
Aurora borealis shimmering her lights above
a reflecting ocean of pastel
Reds and golds, blues and pinks.
A lucky lady who has touched corners
of love and sadness and wonder.
Burned imprints of goodbyes
in the crevices of my mind, but this is who I am.
Living and breathing in this extravagance.
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 12:40 AM UTC
You asked me to confront the ghosts
Of our hearts. As if moving on is as
Stagnant as the longed-for passing of
Pain.
Not your melodramatic melody of
Hope could cuddle the fright of sight.
Neither its rhythm rhymes with my life's
Deepest sigh.
As it has been and will always be,
Always a scar of scrolled poetry.
Of music and madness, of hues of
You. Nevermind,
I have found someone like you.
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 9:40 AM UTC
The sky is solid, gray, motionless.
Shuffling bodies with obscured shadows
Make haste for shelter
From the stark, lifeless outside
With its grass that only lives if watered,
The always leafless trees,
And the carcinogenic air.
Looking upward,
Through the smoggy haze,
One sees the neon silhouettes
Floating in the sky,
Atop the glass and steel monoliths.
They speak to those below,
Of subtle, clandestine oligarchy.
Subconsciously belittling the anonymous masses,
"We are Titans, you are rats."
Say the towers,
As the populace quietly passes over stained concrete and asphalt,
Wearing breathing masks,
Saying not a word to the thousands they pass.
We make haste in this world.
We cannot afford to help a stranger,
To make a detour with a view,
To get your child that gift they really want.
So fiercely we have been strangled
That empathy is illogical.
"What a world" we all say,
As we avoid eye contact with the hungry;
As we change the channel from the melodramatic infomercial
About starving, disease-ridden children somewhere else;
As we console ourselves with hollow entertainment and intoxication,
To keep the guilt at bay,
To keep the thoughts at bay,
"Just do what's best for you,
Don't step out of line,
Shuffle in,
Follow the queue.
That's all you can do."
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 3:46 AM UTC
* *A tear is shed
For those who are blind to the beauty of this world
Who can only feast on sarcasm, writhing in irony
* *It soon evaporates.
Pictures of a future dressed in ribbons and lace, cast off and burned
Pictures of the future carrying disdainful dystopia, infamous for invalids
Hung to admire in sublime distaste by those that seek knowledge
And see the repetitious antiquities of time that come to pass
But others care not for plans and the imminent
Those that keep to the light of the gas
And carry the past to the present
Hoping for trends to try again, reliving what they had never lived
Laconic and loquacious in emotions and words
Against the gossip, but paradoxically
Pushing for the creation of their “ritualistic social Golgotha”.
Those who abuse the glory of their munificent, malicious mentality
Pathetically unable to procure authentic happiness
A tear is shed.
Inside the recesses of the soul where emotions dare not dwell.
It too evaporates.
Trapped in fear and the “cliched harlequin speech of suicide”
Begging for the masses to cast them out and find each other
A tear is shed.
Never seen but felt as it evaporates.
Felt by those who envelop themselves inside themselves
Those who plagiarize their sick self-conscious souls
Those who bring about the very misfortune they strive to devour
Those who are effortlessly envied as they exploit their habitual recreations
By those who wouldn’t dream of falsified euphoria
Those who bastardise and deface the name of creative individualism
As waters of the soul are purged and discarded
They are felt by those
And are quickly washed away in doubt and regret
Keeping to the light of the gas, dangerous and warm
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 10:48 PM UTC
I am sorry if I'm just a mediocre
for not being good enough
in everything
I am sorry if all I could do is whine
crying out like a swine
how imperfect the world can be
I am sorry if I'm not beautiful
if I'm not friendly
if I'm messy, stupid,
insolent, sensitive, and grumpy
I am sorry for being so quiet
that it makes the air awkward
for being a sickly *******
or when I sometimes talk a lot
as if I know everything
I'm sorry if I sometimes feel special
like a protagonist of some story
looking at everyone with scornful eyes
for being so disgustingly melodramatic
for always making excuses
for piling lies on top of lies, on top of lies
or for not even trying
to make these ****** words rhyme
I am sorry for being so hard to like
let alone, to love
and if I ever made you frown
of any of the above
or simply of my existence
know that I am deeply,
truly, and terribly sorry.
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 8:30 AM UTC
I just sent an email to my Mom.
Part of me feels it
Part of me wonders if I'm overdramatic
I feel like ****
Like, I feel different than when I felt depressed
But this is still not a place I want to be
Consistent
Draining
I never feel ok anymore.
I'm not even sure what ok feels like.
I keep wanting to drink for all the wrong reasons
I never get drunk
But I always want to reach that happy nirvana
That "tipsy enough to forget all your worries" place
There's something seriously wrong with me
I haven't actually talked to my family in AZ for over a month
I schedule skype dates with a woman I'll probably never see again
More than I do with my own father.
What type of **** is that?
I looked at **** I ****** myself today.
I feel like the biggest piece of **** this planet has seen.
I also lack self forgiveness.
I got an email back from a priest today.
I told him I'd be interested in joining the priesthood
I realized I might have been lying,
But honestly,
I don't even know!
I feel like I'm sitting on my thumb,
Trying to figure out the world as it
Races by me,
Unwilling to stop and allow me to catch my breath
Or read the signs or understand a **** shred of anything
This is what I'm talking about
Part of me feels this,
And the other part just scoffs, and says I'm melodramatic
*Pick yourself up
Dust yourself off and figure out
what the hell you're doing*
I feel so alone anymore.
Like, if there's not someone by my side
I somehow lack basic humanity.
Like I need someone to be there
If they aren't, I'm obviously not worth much
I closed the blinds four different times today.
I didn't want the neighbors to see my actions.
After a certain point, I closed them to watch a movie
And I haven't opened them back up,
even though
it would probably cheer me up a great deal
This is probably one of the longest "poems"
I've ever written.
It's not poetry, it's freestyle
Not like it matters,
It's like an art major defining the different strokes that an artist used in a painting
Like I give a ****
It's still a painting
Lent is one of the hardest times of the year.
I feel it with every fiber of my being.
Nothing about this situation makes me feel ok.
I feel out of body, out of mind, out of soul.
I'm pretty sure, at this point, St. Peter wouldn't let me in.
In my heart of hearts I want it desperately, but
The rest of me still says no.
I'm so messed up it's ridiculous.
And I sent an email to my mom chronicling her son's failures
Her son's issues,
And why,
Her son
Needs to go back to a counselor
Because I'll be ****** if he's not "fixed" yet.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 6:15 PM UTC
You see a kaleidoscopic spongesque speck pushed into a blur over your vision,
Sitting on air & feathers.
You sit on air rather than feathers,
Incased in drywall,
Surrounded by your worldly possessions,
Drowning in sweat,
Suffocating from air,
The hum of coupled fans waltzes’ into your skull,
A metallic mind prints mass media
Via a melodramatic faux-vintage situation into your skull,
There’s the pitter-patter of post-traumatic pondering in your skull,
A Mexican Coca-Cola clutched in your left hand,
Phillip-Morris owns the pocket on your breast so that they sit closest to your heart,
Pabst Blue Ribbon has carved rights to your liver,
You have an over analytic sense of humor and well-being.
Now you decode your day.
Now you chastise your intuition for lustful engagements with shadow people.
Though you have no qualms with this,
You enjoy yourself from time to time.
But cannot you imagine a more climatic proposition,
In a less disposable universe?
Where corners are cut,
Shoving dignity & quality out the door
Is where impractical risks are made.
However,
All you ponder now is the blur pushed into the edge of your eye.
Perhaps it is a microorganism rendezvousing with another microorganism.
Though they would have no concept of predetermination.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 11:04 AM UTC
Fingernails cry against my skin
and pinch
and pull
and drag
a desperate attempt at some kind of self induced rescue
and a melodramatic autobiography
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
I'm sick of sad teenage girls
crying out
"I've been used"
"I've been had"
"He lied"
"I was never loved"
Fear not sad teenage girls
it is clear what happened
the castle you keep your heart in was stormed
and
that tiny little princess that knew no evil
lowered her drawbridge
So, may I say?
Let it go
Mistakes will be made
That little princess can still grow
because she now knows
some are evil
dastardly
deceptive
all for the lowering of that drawbridge
Gard that castle well sad teenage girl
and never again will you know the selfish deeds
of some "Prince Charming" mounted on a less than noble steed
the sad will fade and trust can be fostered
just make sure he isn't an imposter
accept the past
because life is more than your love last
move onward
smile
Or, he might pass by
as if he were just another guy
So I say to you sad teenage girls
This too shall pass
in the meantime,
take your
melodramatic
self-absorbed
excuses
and toss them away
move onward to bigger and better things
because you are beautiful
strong and empowered
move on teenage girl
concern yourself with life
so later
if you choose to be a wife
she will not have to feel
like that sad teenage girl
lowering her drawbridge
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 9:23 AM UTC
She—an unrepeated motif—waxes precocious like her ancient self.
Never mind the counterfeit eccentrics,
strange enough to be noticed but not doomed.
Their only burden is imperfection.
She’d die for these people, but they don’t realize omniscience is boring.
In preschool, she learned people are mean for no reason.
There’s no sense in spiting the inevitable,
so she gave away her quarters at bake sale.
Her mother would say, “That money is yours.”
The girl would ask, adjusting her overalls,
“If it’s mine, can’t I decide what to do with it?”
In the future, when repeating this story to a potential motif,
she’d know he’s The One when he’d say,
“What do four-year-olds need to know about capitalism?
Thanks to Walt Disney, they want to conform
and follow their hearts at the same time.”
She’d get off on his grumpy, and then notice his ring.
If he had met her first, would he still have married his wife?
It’s not worth hoping for divorce. He’s built to mate for life.
Instead of turning twenty-six, she’ll choose a chair in purgatory—
trapped between what should be and what is.
As long as she’s sitting, she may as well start smoking.
It’s a fine day for oral fixation.
At least she doesn’t smoke Parliaments like the counterfeit eccentrics.
She’d wonder if in a past life she was a dusty vacuum cleaner,
covered in what she was meant to destroy.
It’s too easy to claim hypocrisy,
too easy to cry genius for discovering what works
when for so long, failure was the only place to go.
She hasn’t been happy since she was thirteen.
The day before her first existential crisis,
her mother said, “Stop being so melodramatic.
You must want to be depressed.” Her response:
“I’m not too young for a mid-life crisis. I just won’t live to see thirty.”
She owes her life to a fear of hell,
knows we all experience hell differently. Hers is a banquet.
The proceeds will go toward ending world hunger.
At the end of the night, the keynote speaker complains
that Alfredo sauce doesn’t reheat well, so the leftovers get thrown out.
Jul 29, 2012
Jul 29, 2012 at 10:17 AM UTC
Let me apologize to begin with
For the way I have to say this to you
Instant and digital with the flawless
12 point form in a unison moment
All these words flow like lies from a child
And flawed, a 1984 Brave New World
Jacked in and online, I swear to God
Microsoft is a virus in my veins and the
Side-effects leave me nauseated and yet
Comforted with the connection I feel
With everyone under this epidemic
And Mac is a twisted strain of my particular
Insanity. Glossy and chic in my pocket, on the go,
Steve Jobs is the ancestor of Doctor Wily
Making *** some bandwagon that needs jumping
Like SkyNet will make me safer, I’ve heard it before
I wish this paper was yellow and crackling
With the orange firelight it was written under
On a sofa, pipe in hand, with the Raven tapping
Melodramatic to the point of genius
Rather then the cliché that emotion has somehow become
And abbreviations become acronyms and symbols
Who has killed the fair maiden of language?
Beautifully laid and strung, pearls upon my page
Folded into my pockets and on the margins of reality
Like a child unwilling to wait to show his parents
The words escape and flee and I panic, pen trembling
Mind to tongue to hand and nerves in the ink
Like meter and scheme trying to restrain this infinite
Strand of DNA that is the flawless combinations of letters
And letters! Curved like a woman tempting and pleasing
To round my pen and finding sanity in the corners and points
Or the cursive dribble of calligraphic art practiced endlessly
By the scholars, monks, orphans, or even the X of a slave
Bearing his mark, leaving himself branded on the page
But I most apologize, I will get carried away
And that is not the way Times New Romans likes it
Mar 15, 2011
Mar 15, 2011 at 7:23 PM UTC