Saturday, May 1, 2010


The pen I'm writing this with is called "SRX Edge"
I never understood why
they give such not exciting items
such exciting names

Actually, to me, a pen is exciting.
It might just be a tool
but, to me, it's a tool
with which I forge my art
create my craft
chistle my statues
of glorious heroes
in the world of poetry:
Robert Frost
Emily Dickenson
Sylvia Plath
Big Poppa E

That's right,
I said it.
Big Poppa E.
A man who's words have transformed my childhood
into such inspirational topics
that they've made my mediocre work

So now I'm wondering to myself,
"Where do I go now?"
I'm sitting in in-school-suspension
for skipping bullshit classes
I don't even need
and I can't help contemplating
"Where am I going in life?
Where will this path lead me?
Will I go to college and become
a school therapist like I want to?
Or is my dad right?
Will I be nothing more than a failure
fighting for change in the desolate streets
trying to survive each winter?"

The truth is, I don't know
I don't know
I just don't know.

My life is
like T.S. Eliots "The Wasteland"
like Ophelia's last words
like Romeos plan
like Big Poppa E's "Pushing Buttons"
like being addicted
and having smoked your last cigarette
and not having nearly enough money to buy another pack
so you sit there and shake and fret
by yourself until your next paycheck
like so many allusions within similes
that I've honestly lost count.

Just like I've lost count
of the years that have gone by
since my dad last said he loved me
or called me "champ."
Just like I've lost count
of the number of times
I've cried over that last statement
and how many times
I've written poems he didn't read
about that last statement.
Poems written with a pen just like this one,
a not exciting tool
that cried it's ink onto a page just like this one
just to forge my art
and create my craft.

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