Like I was saying in a previous blog post, Writing About Writing, I adore writing, but am highly limited in regards to my success in a variety of styles. To strengthen my point, I am about to take one for the team, willingly allow myself to be embarrassed, and share a poem I wrote. In my own defense, I happened to write this after a long evening of consuming a certain beverage, and was rather stressed about work. Without further adieu, here is probably the worst poem you've ever read:
I'd drink away my problems but I don't have the finances for it.
So instead it's just me and the ceiling having a staring contest.
I'd toss it all away and start again, but I've tried that and everything finds it way back.
Back where? Back home?
If home is where the heart is but my heart isn't in one place, does that make me homeless?
Let's just burrow that thought back down into the recesses for another loneliness.
Now let's just break this poem down. First off, I wrote it when I had been drinking, so the first line is not even factual. The second line is accurate EVERY NIGHT as I lay down to sleep, and there really is no actual qualm about it. Third line, well I have moved but not much is creeping in on me at the moment. Nor do I actually have any demons that could even make their way out of any closets. And let's just wrap up this emo laden poem by saying that I actually have a home. It's Richmond. And if that doesn't count, I can always go back to my home in Connecticut.
Beyond the content not even making sense, it says something that I can only attempt to write poetry when I'm not in my normal state of mind, because normal me knows that's something to avoid. Furthermore, is this even a poem? Nothing rhymes. There's no symbolism. The general message is barely there. I will be willing accepting rotten tomatoes for this disgrace to the poetic writing form.