Bad poetry


I once read something in The Onion that said something along the lines of “STUDY: Children of Divorce Twice Likely to Write Bad Poetry”. I didn’t realize I was such a sad statistic until I unearthed some of my high school attempts at Verse.



“Sure, I talk of dreams
Which are but the children
Of this idle brain
Beget of nothing
But my vain fantasies…”
But, I beseech you
Do I not deserve to dream?
Am I a lazy fool
To harbour these visions
Of excellence
Of innocence
Of concupiscence
I do not fear love
I dread rejection
I shudder at what is
But more do I fear what might be
And it is fear,
That will be caressing me tonight
As I lay betwixt
These virginal sheets
Touched by none
But my own regret


Ahh, teenaged angst.


Facade’s Embrace

As it happens,
You don’t see me.
As it happens,
I am not so blind.
As it happens,
I am here.
Yet, to you,
You are alone.
To show I don’t care,
I look past you,
Staring vacantly at,
A sight unseen.
But, as it happens,
I don’t need to see your face,
To know you are there.
Your image is burned,
Onto the canvas I see,
When my eyes are closed.
As it happens,
I see you.
You are smiling, laughing.
As it happens,
I know you.
Your smiles and laughter,
Are for someone else.
I stand crying,
Behind this jolly, jeweled mask.
This is my armour.
My best disguise.
It has served me well.
And thus far has kept me safe.


I must have had my thesaurus handy for this one.


A Chain of Daisies

She raises her hands
In a quixotic salute to an archaic sun
An age old symbol of hero worship
The windswept field whispers a cliche
Befitting such picturesque terrain
Spinning madly, this free spirit brands the grass
Movements that coerce a sense of delicious nausea
Kismet is encompassed in the air she breathes
Lifeblood is held in the fragile fingers of a faith
That maintains that the Earth will catch her
Regardless of how high she jumps


I actually think this one is pretty amusing. My foray into chatroom cybersex:


Digital Ecstasy

You are but a delightful combination
Of who you say you are
And what I want you to be
My hushed words of passion
Are punctuated but the staccato keyboard
My ne’er seen glossed lips
Press against the flashing monitor
The sound of your climax
Beeps through my speakers
I’d join you but
This program has performed an illegal operation
I press cancel
And lose all my unsaved fantasies


Just one more. Then I’ll stop. I’m reminded of the part in Hitchiker’s Guide to the Galaxy when Arthur and Ford are forced to listen to Vogon poetry, (which is, or course the third worst in the universe).



I am starving
Not for food; Not for drink
‘Though I have had neither for days
I am starving
For human touch
Caresses; Embraces
I have gone without these for months
This place is so restricted; segregated
“This is my personal space…no touching”
Are they afraid to get close?
I wonder…
What would She do
If I wrapped my arms around her waist?
What would He do
If I linked my elbow with his?
Inside I slowly wither
I am a plant without sunlight
A solitary confinement
I have been arbitrarily placed in
How I long for that sweet suffocation
When was the last time I spooned with someone?
When was the last time I pinched someone’s belly?
If I had to choose between
A breath and a hug
You know what I would choose
Smother me
I’m so fucking sick of breathing


Ah, the memories.


About Angela

My name is Angela. I am a 28 year old psych and criminology graduate, but I'd rather not diagnose you. I am a cuddle-slut. I can recite the entire script of The Princess Bride, (including accents) and believe that the meaning of life is contained within. Polyanna, commercials, and Oprah 'reunion shows' make me cry. I can whistle and hum at the same time, but I cannot touch my toes. I am an expert in both listening and talking. I look good in orange. I am a writer. I kick ass in Gin, Hearts, and Cribbage but I don't understand Canasta or Bridge. I can be heard singing Broadway numbers from my shower, and have dressed up as a viking princess, (complete with aluminum foil breast plate) The Phantom of the Opera, and a Ghostbuster for Hallowe'en. I have a bird named Bean. I have a brother named Adam. They are not related. I like vanilla body lotion, peanut butter, saunas, Jim Carrey, broccoli, pets,, Muppets, Kevin Smith, Corelle dishes, dry erase white-boards, Barenaked Ladies, Philosophy, the letter J, Harry Potter, picture frames, swimming, quilting, Michael Moore, genealogy, Raggedy Anne, tacky 50's tchotchke, 'Idiot's Complete Guide To' books, tweezers, feather pillows, polar dips, aquariums, Martin Luther King Jr., and Dr. Pepper. I don't like meat, gossips, cooked carrots, American Idol, mosquitoes, sweating, politics, public washrooms, tardiness, tuition, hunting, pat answers, pick up lines, brown bananas, cliches, pine scented air freshener, Kevin Costner, bacon, candied apples, pro-wrestling, humidity, and hypocrisy. Books I've read recently The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy, The Dark Tower, When Nietzsche Wept, What's So Amazing About Grace?, Catcher in the Rye, Not Wanted On the Voyage, The Red Tent, The Little Prince, The Way the Crow Flies, Slaughterhouse-Five, The Poisonwood Bible, The Fall, The Knot of Vipers, Calculating God, The Chrysalids, Sick Puppy, Nineteen Eighty-Four, Franny and Zooey, The Brothers Karamazov, and jPod. I am slightly neurotic. No I'm not. Yes I am.

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