If there's one thing I learned throughout my college career, it's that you should expand your horizons and do things you're uncomfortable with.
Freshman year, I took on a position at Wright State's newspaper. Granted, my title was 'contributing writer,' which entitled me to zero compensation to create god-awful humor articles. Regardless, it was a thing I did.
Sophomore year, I wrote a musical about a teenage boy starring in a porno, though my music writing abilities were, and remain to be, limited. Still, it was a thing I did.
Junior year, well, not much happened there. Let's just say I took that year off.
Now, as I enter my final semester, I must experiment. First of all, my roommate and I are taking over the comic strip for WSU's "The Guardian;" the same newspaper I wrote utter crap for three years ago. And it only makes sense that I would attempt to write poetry because my schedule is made up solely of poetry classes. Bleh.
Despite the 'bleh' comment, I've developed a liking to the art, primarily because of Bo Burnham. He's a comedian. He's a songwriter. He's a poet. His collection entitled "Egghead or You Can't Survive on Ideas Alone" inspired me to write poetry myself.
So, here it is.
Different
I burnt my tongue on a curling iron
I wanted to be like the others
Now my tongue is black
And my taste buds are gone
What percentage of the population can say that?
Masks
You want me to wear a permanent smile,
But they don’t make a marker for that.
Even if they did, a good shower scrub
Would wipe it right off in a snap.
White makeup and a red nose
May work for a little while.
Until a tear runs down my cheek
And the paint chips join in a pile.
“But comedy is fun! We laugh ‘til we cry
There’s no sadness or loss or pain.”
But comedy is just one of the masks.
It’s the art of keeping us sane.
????????????????????????
What if I was gay? Queer?
Would you still love me?
What if I cross-dressed? Or had a thing for feet?
What if I was fat? What then? Or an anorexic bulimic?
Would you still feel the same?
What if I was never successful? Unemployed and still lived in my parents’ basement?
Why would they put me in the basement anyway? Did they rent out my bedroom?
What if I never wanted kids? What if I’d rather own seven cats than have a child?
What then? Would you still want to be with me?
What if I stopped asking questions?
Then I guess I would give you enough time to answer the first one.
Spurts
Relate to me
I dare you
Just try
Open your mind
Let me in
But don’t let me stay
Things will get ugly
Very ugly
Like Willem Dafoe ugly
Yeah, that bad
Take me in spurts
Euthanasia
If I was a horse
I wouldn’t let you ride me.
I’d be one of those narcissistic,
Asshole horses that would
Snort and blow air
At little kids when they
Try to manhandle my mane.
If you try to feed me
Oats, apples, slop
I’ll go for the fingers.
When the fuzz comes
And asks why I bit off
One of your digits,
I’ll simply tell them
That I’m a horse
When they put the gun
To my head, or inject a
Strange serum into my
Spine, I don’t want the blindfold.
I desire to look my killer
In the eyes. I want them
To feel emotionally torn
For letting me,
A horse,
Be a horse.
Senses
I tore out my taste buds with a pair of tweezers,
Ruptured my eardrums with a used Q-tip,
And punctured my eyes with a rusty ice pick.
Then I took an iron press to my finger pads
And opened a pair of scissors inside my nostrils,
Ripping the cartilage from my nose
I want to be stripped of my senses.
My desire to perceive you
Does not exist.
The thought of you repulses me,
But I can’t stop.
It’s the one sense I can’t control.
I love you.
