Poetry or How I stopped worrying and loved the life by Ismael Santos

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I sit here,

Writing this poem.

I try to get something going,

Doesn’t seem to work.

I could write about birds and bees,

About Death and Sorrow; About happiness or love.

Nothing really works right now.

It never does.

Poetry can’t be forced; Poetry can’t be faked.

Poetry is something far gone away.

On the tip of the tongue, but lost anyway.

It’s kind of like going in circles.

Except you get congratulations and maybe a number or two.

My worst is my best, and my best is my worst.

How’s that for abstract? How’s that for obtuse?

One time I sent a girl a poem ; she wanted to have sex.

One time I sent a boy a poem; he wanted to touch my chest.

One time I sent a girl a poem; she wanted to claw my eyes out.

One time I sent a boy a poem; he wanted to have sex, too.

Why mention this?

Why mention that?

No real reason.

Just wanted to be abstract.

Here are a few tips for rookie poets:

Never be clear

Never be concise

Never be abstract

Never be precise

Never be long-winded

Never be a bore

Never be real serious

Never be a joker or a snore

Nor a smoker or a toker

Or the odd man out

Or the odd man in

Be somewhere nice and cozy

Be in the middle of things

Weave reality and falsehood

Until nothing can really be found out.

Be pleasant and modest; be crazy and self-centered

Be nice and humble; be proud and egomaniacal

Maybe mention a passing reference

To your genitals; that always gets a laugh.

Mention your demons and your problems

And you’ll only get a passing glance.

Write about how you hate everybody

Or how Life is meaningless

We’re all junior pessimists

We’re all full of it.

We like to believe no one

Understands us, or how no one cares about us.

We’re all too blinded, anyway,

So what’s the difference?

He, She, Me, We, Us, Them,

I, Our, Your, They,

All of these describe Us.

Everyone is the same.

And is that such a bad thing?

We strive for originality, but

end up copy and pasting.

The same argument, Ad infinitum;

Ad verbatim. Ad nauseam.

So what’s the key to Poetry?

To Life or Sex or Humor or Love?

Don’t try too hard.

Don’t fake it.

Let the unconscious go on.

Let it be natural and free.

The more you try,

The less you’ll succeed.

My fellow poets,

Don’t be discouraged.

What works for me might not

Work for you.

Follow your instincts,

Even if a bit impulsive.

The mistake today

Might be the Goldmine of Tomorrow.

Want to rhyme? Do it.

Want to free verse? Do it.

The truth will come out, regardless.

You can only lie and distort for so long.

I used to write about

Darkness and Despair.

I tried Happiness and Good Times:

Didn’t really seem to work.

So, what do I write about now?

Simple, really: Dogs, Cats,

Girls, Typhoons, Bellybutton Lint,

Teenage Angst, Batman cartoons.

I write about nothing.

I write about everything.

So, if you’ll excuse me,

I have some Lady Gaga

Photos to attend to.

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by | October 20, 2012 · 9:51 pm

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