I Hate Poetry
I hate poetry.
The way the sounds of the words roll off the lips of the reader
That can make the birthing of a pig sound romantic and lovely.
I hate dating. I really hate that.
No I mean it.
All women could go to hell, and burn there as well.
The Chinese knew what they were doing when they arranged their marriages.
Twas the greatest atonement ever offered to their children.
Ah, but dating. Dating was born from the Puritan world.
Who hated all pleasure, and all vice,
And thought that they would show all people what hell was like,
So they would grow up to be nice.
So they invented dating.
I look over at you after a really bad poem.
You know the kind. The kind that hit you in the fleshy parts of your desire.
I look over at you to see if caught the same.
There you are with modge podge on your eyes. Drying in time.
I almost pushed your eyelids down and pulled a sheet over your head,
But just as I'm about to give a eulogy, you look up at me.
A quick blink, and almost as quick, a smile.
And suddenly you appear interested in the birthing of a pig
As described by one of those damned poets.
If only I had known you liked poetry, I would have taken you someplace else.
Like Bohemia, so you could paint your nails in the sun on the porch.
I thought you hated poetry. I mean you talked like a poet.
At least you sounded like a poet to me.
Mostly you spoke in confused babblings, and rambled on about your classes.
How was I supposed to know.
Love, is cruel, tis true.
For oft times shooting us with his bow and arrow.
Maybe once or twice, Ok, for me it was thrice.
But Hope, Hope is crueler still.
For instead of a bow and an arrow, He shoots
A Browning semi-automatic into the fleshy parts of our desire.
Making us think that the next date will somehow be better than the last.
Illusions of romance and grander still, that dating will somehow come
To the brink of Fruition.
But reality. Reality is darker still.
For some day Reality greets you and introduces you to Fact.
The Fact is, that your first date was your best.
They've all gone downhill since then.
You remember it, don't you.
You kissed her on her teeth, and to make up for it,
You patted her on her head. Farted, and then went back to car.
Just to notice the spinach between your teeth.
Yes, dating was almost good back then.
A cruel child of Death is Hope.
Now I walk home, in the silence of the night.
The stars shine down with mockery.
You, I don't know where the hell you are.
For you left two hours ago during intermission.
You apologized and said that you just couldn't get your mind into it.
You sounded sincere. You wished you were sincere.
Now I walk home
Instead of your hand, I hold
A book of poetry I bought at the show
Many years from now, your memory will be dead and those bones will melt in the dirt
But this book of poetry will stand tall on my self
Gathering dust since the day I bought it
Cause I never read poetry.
I hate poetry.
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