March 22nd, 2011

writing: within this journal

From the Bad Poetry Archive

I went through some of my old papers today, and in those papers I found a poetry collection I did in tenth grade. Some of the poems were by other people, but a few of them were my own. Reading through my poems reminded me why I don't write poetry. Not because I'm bad at it (though I am), but because my writing style is much more suited for prose. Here's Exhibit A, an untitled poem that I wrote when I went through a Spongebob phase. (Yes, Spongebob. In tenth grade. In my defense Spongebob was really popular at the time, but my Spongebob phase deserves its own post.)

[Fun note: In the middle of a page is a picture of Spongebob and Plankton during the FUN song. I labeled them appropriately.]

Untitled
(by me, Fall 2002)
I start the day as Spongebob yellow
Happy and cheerful to all who approach,
Spotting the happiness in the little things,
And making people doubt my sanity.
When everyone thinks I'm happy,
I burst and become a Plankton green,
Seeking happiness in domination alone,
Feeling powerless and powerful at once,
And everyone jumps out of my way.

Before I can notice anything is up,
I'm yellow again, unaware of
That sudden yet inevitable mood swing.
But it's just a matter of time
Until I'm green again, so watch out--
This one could hurt!

Again, this is why I don't write poetry. I'll post more poetry from the crappy poetry archives later this week.
writing: voices in head

Crappy Poetry Week, part two

In the next installment of crappy poetry week, we have another poem from tenth grade. This one is supposed to look like the thing it's talking about. (There's a name for that, but I don't feel like looking it up.) I wrote mine comparing life to a hurricane.

Life is...


Life is a hurricane. You are picked up
And thrown in before you suspect a
thing. Things get worse and worse
until you reach the eye. Then
everything is calm, but before
you can notice another
thing, you're picked up
and thrown back
into that great
hurricane
better
known
as
life.


Dear past self, you're not going to win any awards with your poetry anytime soon. Love, present self.