There once was a glassblower who lived by the sea. In the daring years of his youth, the glassblower would pull all kinds of strange and wonderful shapes from out of colored glass. He blew neon spires ... [+]
I didn’t know where to start, so I tried writing this poem like an essay- organized, structured, well thought out.
I planned the outline- hook, thesis, two main body paragraphs, topic sentences, supporting evidence, analysis, restatement of the thesis, and then I said fuck that... what am I even writing?
This is an essay, yet I expected it to become a poem.
You said I love you forever and then expected me to get over it.
This poem isn’t supposed to be organized or structured or even well thought out.
If I’m going to write a poem about love, it’s not going to be any of those things because love isn’t any of those things.
If I’m going to write a poem about you, you don’t deserve any of those things.
Before you, organized itself was jealous of how put together I was.
Structured herself marveled at how impeccable my posture was.
Well Thought Out himself envied the purpose in my life.
Before you, I was an erasable pen, or a stapler and a stapler remover, but now I’m a sharpie, unforgiving. Before you I was an essay, and now I’m a poem. So thank you. I hate you. They mean the same thing anyway.
I planned the outline- hook, thesis, two main body paragraphs, topic sentences, supporting evidence, analysis, restatement of the thesis, and then I said fuck that... what am I even writing?
This is an essay, yet I expected it to become a poem.
You said I love you forever and then expected me to get over it.
This poem isn’t supposed to be organized or structured or even well thought out.
If I’m going to write a poem about love, it’s not going to be any of those things because love isn’t any of those things.
If I’m going to write a poem about you, you don’t deserve any of those things.
Before you, organized itself was jealous of how put together I was.
Structured herself marveled at how impeccable my posture was.
Well Thought Out himself envied the purpose in my life.
Before you, I was an erasable pen, or a stapler and a stapler remover, but now I’m a sharpie, unforgiving. Before you I was an essay, and now I’m a poem. So thank you. I hate you. They mean the same thing anyway.