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Bad Poetry 2: Electric Boogaloo

It’s round two of Bad Poetry! The last time I did this (read that here) I got a few family and friends asking me, “These were great…they weren’t bad, why did you call it that?” Here’s the reason: I don’t know what I’m doing, really. I studied some poetry in High School and College – how to read it, how to act it out, how to think about it as a reader and performer, but never how to write it. I wasn’t an English major in college and then when I did start writing, it was always novels or articles – never poetry. But it’s fun to play around with words and types of poetry (like Haiku!) and imagery in a different way. This is why I label it Bad Poetry…not because they suck (although they might) but because I have no idea if they can even all be called poetry. I’m just having fun, so enjoy!

The System is Down, Yo

Internet is out
No Netflix, Hulu, YouTube
What to do for fun?

An Ode to Staples

Notebooks and pens and highlighters galore.
Colored pencils, markers, crayons and more.
Aisles and aisles of envelopes, binders, paper, and ink.
Music above, rain outside, lights that glow an odd shade of pink.
I make my choices, carefully picking supplies.
And ring them all up and head out with my prize. 


Depression

My mind never stops, the words are swirling and the voices are drowning out my own thoughts. Happiness is always just a bit out of reach. I stretch, I strain, but I can’t seem to grab it for very long. I brush it with my fingertips, linger in the warm sunny delight of it, but then just as quick it’s gone again. Slammed into darkness, surrounded by ugly horrible images. Pictures that I don’t want to see. Things I don’t want to think about. Facts that I don’t even believe anymore. I am better than this. I try again. Stretch further, strain more, try to grab it one last time. Maybe this time it will stay.

I fall on my face. Splat! Straight down in murky water, dirt, and debris. I sit up and look around. I start feeling sorry for myself. I decide to just sit here and live, in this ditch or hole that I’ve somehow created for myself. It feels comfy…until it doesn’t. Until I start to get antsy and angry. Mad at myself, mad at the world. Mad at everyone that looks happy.

I try smiling. I try singing. But nothing works for long. I finally try talking. I talk and talk and talk and cry and scream and somehow the clouds part and the sun appears, and I see it. Happiness floating toward me. I hold out my hands and it lands softly. I throw it around me like a blanket. I feel warm and light. It won’t always be this easy, but for now…right now. It is.


Growing Up



Going to school and riding the bus, you seem so big.

Helping me pack your snack and getting dressed, you seem so big.
Homework and reading, you seem so big.

But then, at night, before bed when you crawl into my lap and put your head in the space between my soft body and warm arms, you look up at me and all I see is my baby. My little 8 lb 3 oz newborn who would look up me while feeding and I smile. 

You might be growing up, but you’re still little to me. 

Published inFictionWriting

One Comment

  1. Definitely not "Bad Poetry." I really enjoyed them. Especially the last one. Very true.

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