well, okay

here is some original work. cause i got callede kanye west and stuff for my last posts. and also cause Elsa thought i wrote "devour" and now i feel bad. so heres some poetry for yall

**DISCLAIMER: I CANNOT WRITE POETRY I AM A FICTION WRITER!**

drunk

why this curdled rain
of heavy tears? he’s just a cat,
you know. the cat, silent
asexual Egyptian idoless,
is not to have such invoked tears,
to bring such coughs
of mourning. the question is thrust
at me on all sides by amateur
writers, amateur breathers, who
spout new age catch-phrases,
empowered sexuality of the woman,
just another idiot cynic agenda.

i merely sit with a Canada goose
watching me as i fish for my pencil
and tear off a piece of paper.
he is a good Samaritan,
my little neighbor.
he isn’t here for me, this much i know.
the goose is here, like we all are, for
literature, the duckwalks of the quiet
poem inside the volume tilting beside him.
he watches, with pleading glass eyes while in lead
and paper intoxication i try to settle
a sweet tea accent into answers
to coffee-laden feminist questions.

i cast around,
make excuses for mourning a cat,
say that he was the last, a gray tabby bond
holding us together, a tie to the old life
bounding in from the hunt...
but there are still two parents, two children, one beagle dog.

i look to the goose, and he confirms my answer
in a voice that relates more to milky pond water
than either tea or coffee. but not an ounce of it
can satisfy inquisition, the caffienated “other woman.”
it’s back to the drawing board for me.

on it, i sketch the goose. i tried to make him stand,
but now he sits, wings askew, and thus appears
on paper. i add a beagle
alongside a rabbit, and a cat alongside a mouse,
and over all a lion-lamb combination.

i flip to read the goose’s
poem. there is joy in the sadness of it-
smiles to beggars, daydreams of rain.
maybe, i think,
no hot-beverage reason is needed at all
to want to keep a cat who i have lost
in fiery, smokey loneliness- i know not which-
maybe a cat is a cat,

he is just a cat,
and there is no shame in crying for him.
as for the goose and me,
we aren’t sure we understand.
but at least we’ve got company.



thats something from two poems i wrote in the poetry unit of my literary class in tenth grade. i revised and combined them a couple weeks ago. you can probably tell im really a fiction writer not a poet. heres another one from tenth grade, thus far unchanged.

quizzical

What is inside this,
the box on my desk?
I know it’s not me
in this shining cube.
If I am not inside this box,
does that mean I am thinking
outside of the box?
what about the room?
it’s like a box.
Can I be beyond
the box on my desk
and still inside
the box of this room.
the box of my head?

I’m not allowed to open this box.
Can I open my head to the world?
Or am I closed off
with only tiny gaps
for people to peer inside cautiously,
trying not to get close enough for touching?


so tell me what you all think. but be nice lol they are from when i was eh...16? yeah thats it no maybe even 15 cause it was first quarter. well the first one is sorta from then and sorta from now...well you get it just be nice to the poor fiction writer attempting poetry.