Tuesday, March 29, 2011

One Way To Ring-In Christmas

There would always be these long, wordless pauses
between my neighbor and I when I visited,
and sometimes I'd bring along notebooks and pens
in case I felt like speaking
without destroying the enjoyable silence

In those silences I'd begin to try
and force out an observation or yearning,
and every time I'd get a few words down
he'd spin around from his newspaper's perch and speak to me

It was as if he were jealous
of the pen and I's time together,
or maybe he was just in-tune to some brain-wave
sent out from desperate wordsmith wannabes,
maybe all coincidence, but I was gonna write
of some beautiful girl again anyhow,
about some terrible thing she or I did,
about someone I wish she was,
instead I've painted this pen into an artistic corner,
it all feels so fake,
'forced' seems like the right word to describe it,
and I know that as soon as this pen drops back to the table
the newspaper will no longer be as lonely as I
with a beautiful woman in my bed
and me next door on Christmas Eve,
4AM in dim lighting while rain beats the earth all around this town

"We beat the record for rain by a few inches,
that's what the evening news said" he tells me
out of nowhere and without me telling him
of my penning the word 'rain',
I told him how if it flooded us all tonight,
making us homeless or drowned,
we'd be better off somehow

Even with the words still flowing,
no happiness came from them,
whether they were born of old men,
young women or the guy who knows both,
it always seems to boil down
to things you want from someone
that they aren't able to
or interested in delivering to you,
I or the world at large,
and that's every damned poem in the world to me,
it's whining, it's pining, overall,
it's just fucking old, and yet, here we are,
and my mind rambles off on some thought
of the world's greatest asshole
winning a multi-million dollar lottery
then breaking into my house
to fuck the woman in my bed,
and I'm fuming with it as I sit this pen down

Friday, March 18, 2011

I Hate Poetry

I've always hated poetry and usually anything with rhyme
Cause rhyme reminds me of how we like to sound certain ways
And hide what we really feel behind the words we don't mean
Writing words to end sentences with no heart
Poems are the suicide notes left behind by dead dreams
They are the smell on a lover's shirt who's left you
The lipstick smear on the wine glass that sits perched
above the sink so you are reminded everyday of their leaving
That you're not good enough and never will be
I hate poetry