Be Not my Hero

Day Eight: Three turn ons.

1. Accept me for who I am.
2. Love books.
3. Be sure of yourself.

This is a little poetry exercise we did in class. We each wrote a first line on a piece of paper and then passed it to the teacher and then chose a line that we wanted to write a poem with. This is mine.

Brewed like a cup of dark steeped tea, this mood
carries the pungent thoughts mellowing the carbon
paper down with apple cores and cigarette butts
left in trash cans and ashtrays for the hobos and homeless
to find and gnaw on when Time doesn’t give them a second chance.

This mood grows like a cancerous sore of pity, hopelessly
wandering the shopping malls and overcrowded streets
of dismay and appointments never given a chance of freedom
to look justly in the face without regrets stemming
with no roots to the obscene and almost abandoned.

Hopelessly like an overstuffed teddy, ready to burst
and blurt the impurities and imperfections staining
the white gown on her perfect day amid a list of insecurities
and dissatisfactions she’ll drown in a bottle
of cheap wine and three packs smoked precisely before consummation.

Ready to burst like drama queens, the scene is set
lights are dimmed to almost black but silhouettes and shadows
along the stage floor innocently depict the facts we
refuse to engage but now are thrust crammed fed
but the curtain closes too soon on an empty mind.