Future Me Will Laugh Posted by Sad Blogger , 23.10.12 at Tuesday, October 23, 2012, in

Now and then I bang out a poem that I feel might actually be worth sharing or even showing off. But that happens fairly infrequently in proportion to the amount of time I spend trying to write poetry or write anything, really. The creature below is not really the gem I was hoping it would be, but the short series of Emo-Kev Smodcast episodes that recently came out have got me wanting to have some sort of record of all the stupid shit that I've cranked out in my attempts to be creative or profound or unique or whatever. I do have other writing saved here and at home that might be worthy of self deprecating analysis someday, but at the moment I feel proud of most of it. This poem, however, I think is particularly pretentious and pontificating. It reads a lot like a child trying very hard to sound like a reflective grown up with grown up thoughts and observations. I mean if it's even a little good, then go me. But if it's as bad as it probably is, then I can't wait to go back and read this someday and cringe at my hopelessness.

these words have dragged themselves
across undustable hardwood and gnawed 
on ankles and stood on shoulders and 
pouted with disappointment that the
world is not much better from higher up

and it's strange now that they should
tumble back out from whatever dark 
closet they'd been shoved into maybe 
to commune with the rain in some 
desperate show of cliché melodrama to 
impress their friends

and what is it about rain that the 
annals of metaphorical and evocative 
imagery should hold it up in such 
high regard

as though the drops fell from a 
higher place than heaven and carried 
pieces of the souls they rolled over 
to get here and filled the world with 
the washed off flecks of ascended dirt

and life is just a shower drain for 
the departed

but for whatever reason and in spite 
of their insignificance these words 
long to count the raindrops on the 
window and clamor to curl up in old 
blankets and lust after strangers
trudging through the miserable layer 
of pre-winter on the sidestreet