I have been writing and rewriting this poem for ages now. I still don’t like it, with the exception of the last line. Does anyone have any suggestions for it? For those who aren’t sure, it’s a poem about realizing the futility of making the same mistakes over and over while praying for a different outcome. All suggestions welcome.

Hope can be a hindrance.
It’s agonizing to realize
my reality has atrophied;
my life is built on lies.

Truth offers no comfort
as it seeps into your brain
but clutching dead dreams
can only drive you insane.

Delusion, my sweet addiction,
makes me crawl back for more
and I relearn the bitter lesson:
hope is a foolish whore.

Ever wonder why very few people read poetry these days who aren’t poets themselves? This is a poem about the horrible epidemic of bad poetry that’s invaded the small press. Literary Mags need to worry a bit less about being trendy and put a little more effort into publishing high quality writing because I’ve seen poetry published that was so bad that I wanted to gouge out my eyes with a spork.

You create a jumbled heap
of depthless jargon
that you pretend
holds some
obscure meaning
by spilling
fractured statements
of fluently regurgitated
random thoughts
onto paper.
Stylized incoherent rambling
is the latest trend
eaten up by mimics
of literary genius.
Poetry’s evolved into
a literary freak show
comprised of
soulless globs
of brain fodder.
You’re a fraud
peddling snake oil
under the guise of art,
making buyers skeptical
of all our wares.
Wrap it in ribbons
of pseudo intellectualism
but shit still stinks
no matter how
you present it.

For those of you that haven’t fallen for the charm of a manipulative little player, consider yourselves lucky. People that harm others in order to gain an ego boost are little better than cockroaches in my opinion. The only thing I dislike about this poem is that I couldn’t seem to get the rhythm down just right. It drove me crazy but in the end I decided that I played around with it for long enough and to just leave it alone. I hope you guys like it!

You gloat because you’ve won.
You pulled the wool over my eyes.
You made me believe in nonsense;
I fell for your honeyed lies.

Go ahead and praise yourself,
on the good job that you’ve done.
What does it matter who you hurt,
when you can claim you’ve won!

Run and tell the sordid tales
of your pathetic victory.
I’m rid of a heartless vulture,
so the real winner is me.

This is a freestyle poem that I wrote a while back. (Joe asked to see some of my non-traditional poetry. So, here you go!) It’s your typical angst ridden lost love poem. Hope you guys like it!

I’ve been wallowing
in this sinkhole
awaiting
some hint,
some signal
from you.
I ache to know
that the person
who vowed
to love me
eternally
remembers
that I still exist.

(more…)

I wrote this trying to create a horror poem for a poetry contest that left the reader feeling disturbed without using any gore or supernatural elements. This is what I came up with. Let me know if I succeeded!  

I love Cee Cee very much.
We share secrets.
Sometimes when I get mad,
I tickle her everywhere,
even her bad place,
just like Daddy.

I tore off one of her eyes.
I keep it in my jewelry box;
The button is smooth and black,
the way Cee Cee’s hair used to be,
before I used Daddy’s lighter.

Now Cee Cee won’t talk to me.
She doesn’t like me anymore.
I hear her crying every night,
but I won’t ever dig her up.
That little bitch might tell.

Sometimes our lives get so hectic, we lose ourselves in the shuffle.

At some point I know I stopped thinking,
I just allowed “us” to simply be.
At some point I gave up all my needs,
and took care of everyone but me.

When did I become so damn careless?
When did I become dumber than sin?
I need to hang up “missing” posters,
to figure out where my brain has been.

I don’t recognize myself at all.
This is not the young woman I knew.
How was the buoyant dreamer within
replaced by a cynical old shrew?

I reclaim myself as a woman;
I am more than a mother and wife.
I won’t lose sight of myself again,
and nearly abandon my own life.

Seems I have another case of writing block so here is a silly little ditty that doubles as a bit of link love for some of my blogging buds. Enjoy! 

I’m not sure how it happened.
I can’t believe the words I speak
but somehow I failed to notice,
my muse went missing last week.

I don’t remember where I last saw her,
or where she’d be likely to go
but if any of you have seen her,
please call me and let me know.

I grow more worried by the minute
and it’s put me in quite a funk!
What if Meleah’s sold her on eBay
or Woobie’s got her corpse in a trunk?

She’s not talking books with Alan,
learning Ajax with the help of Andy,
or visiting with Claire and the kids.
Did Teeni lure her away with candy?

Could Mr. Grudge be behind this
in cahoots with WitchyPoo?
Perhaps Graham borrowed her
to help out the EntreCard crew?

If someone out there returns her,
I promise I won’t get mad,
unless you went and broke her.
She’s the only one I had!

Sorry if I’m whining
but I think I’ve paid my dues.
Forget about finding Waldo,
Where is my muse!?

I wrote this one as a teen. It’s not my best poem but I like the message behind it. It encompasses how I feel about being a large woman in the United States pretty well, although I think I’m even less tolerant of the rampant stupidity and stereotyping that I encounter when it comes to my weight these days.

I eat without guilt,
I wear revealing clothes,
I have sex with the lights on,
and I laugh at you,
when you insist
I’m not supposed to do those things,
just because I’m fat.

Oh, I could cover up every inch of myself,
hiding behind layers of fabric.
Eat nothing but a crouton for dinner,
and pretend to be satisfied.

I could act completely asexual,
deny myself of my physical desires
and despise my body enough to disfigure it,
in an endless crusade for the unattainable.

I know you’d like me better that way.
You’d feel more at ease with me,
if I fit into the ignorant stereotypes,
you cling to like a spoiled child.

But I’m not here to please you.
I’m not going to feed your prejudice,
and I don’t give a fuck about your ideals.

I will not allow my weight to define me,
or society to dictate my life
and I’m not going anywhere,
so you better just get used to it.

I have always been terrified of turning into this kind of woman. I seem to always resort to escapism through fantasy. I wonder if I will ever become a strong enough woman to give up that unhealthy haven. Somehow, I don’t think it’s going to happen, at least not without a grueling amount of work and dedication. I don’t think I have it in me.

Old crone,
dust and bone,
sitting on the shelf;
never wed,
or went to bed,
with anyone but yourself.

Old crone,
dust and bone,
nursing bitter lies;
you’ve denied,
with stubborn pride,
your fairytale’s demise.

Old crone,
dust and bone,
rotting in the past;
pines away,
and trusts one day,
Prince Charming will come at last.

I wrote this when, by chance, I ran into a man who just blew me away. Unfortunately, I am somewhat shy and have never been good at chatting up attractive men. I just blanked out, unable to force out anything other than senseless jargon. I still blush over how foolish I must have looked. All hail the bumbling queen of smooth!

What an exquisite creature!
My brain; once quite useful,
now just quivering jelly.
How is it even possible
to forget how to converse?
Numerous witty remarks
remain dormant on my tongue.

Your sensual siren song
interwoven seamlessly
into every utterance.
So transfixed on your lips
words fade into nothingness.
Lustful daydreams consume me;
notions that would make you blush.

Your words pierce the foggy veil.
At last; reality descends,
I abruptly fall to Earth.
Crimson spreads across my face
as I meet your puzzled gaze.
How long have you been waiting?
I have no answer to give,
I don’t know the question!

Unfiltered thoughts fly freely,
flowing from my awkward lips.
Spluttering apologies
like a hopeless simpleton.
How I wish I could implode
or uncover an escape hatch.

Such ludicrous irony:
It was a total nightmare
to meet the man of my dreams.