Saturday, May 14, 2011

I am not a poet.

I wrote a poem the other day, and this is how it goes.

The light,
How it dances in her hair
But I'm only thinking of you
And why I'm not there

I touch her smooth face
Yet like an ill-fated ship
It's all just a lie
As I kiss her warm lips

I know it's not right
I know it's not fair
As I hold her soft hand
And pretend that I care

It's you that I want
Not this elaborate hoax
But I need to give up on
These long drawn out hopes

I'd fall from the sky for you,
From the moon up above
And though it may not seem so
It's you that I love

Thats so deep, amirite? So, to save face, I will explain why I wrote such a thing. I was recently assigned a poem in my senior English class. A very short poem, on a topic of our choice. Easy, right? Of course, being that all English teachers make everything overly complicated, there was a catch. We had to pick an object out of a bag, and list how it stimulated every sense. Then we had to do three phrases about the object, and some word association. I got a squishy rubber ball, similar to the ones posted in that image.

I was not pleased with the assignment.

It was that night, after a wasted class of trying to determine how a rubber ball stimulated my sense of sight, smell, touch, taste, and feel, that I decided to get back at her. Of course, my type of revenge only amused me and my fellow classmates, but I decided that was enough. I just decided to write an overly deep, emotional poem that has nothing to do with a rubber ball, or any of the senses or word association we had to find either. I sat down and in fifteen minutes had my masterpiece.
I got a 100 on the assignment, and many laughs.

Sad thing is, the story in the poem is true.

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