I should have saved Anne’s sprite for today. Then I could just write a paragraph about how I want to finish the door signs this weekend and call it a night. Eh. Here’s a poem:my hands hesitate on the keyboard due to the plain and simple fact that i am bored. there, what do you make of that? will you read into it? will you try to organize my mind like those poems writ and copied, four-of-a-kind, theme to theme, by narrator’s voice? i am no poem. that is my choice. i was mad thinking i could show ‘em, that i could pray in the Analysis Shrine after a long trip in foreign lands where the symbolic sun don’t shine. i suppose i converted. looking at these hands, you could tell. there are no scars where poems struggled against that fell and murd’rous urge to extinguish stars.
I like the last five lines. A lot. I suppose the entire poem requires some context: I wrote this in “Writer’s Block Freewrites,” a Word document set aside especially for whining about writer’s block, or, more often than not, homework that I don’t want to do. Poetry responses fell into that category – I was asked to pick apart the week’s poem and read its entrails for symbolism. After having Mr. Scotese for a teacher, I’d lost my taste for that sort of activity, and this poem was the result of the inevitable clash of analysis styles.