*Ain't you got no rhymes for me?*

[janeaustenfreak]

I'm not quite sure what is up with me and bad poetry recently. I suppose I was feeling really down, and when I'm feeling blue, I always write horrible poetry. I'm not quite sure why I post it, really. I guess I'm hoping it's somehow a masterpiece.



If I could paint,
I would brush thick strokes of grey
on blinding canvasses.
If I could sing,
I would wail like thunder
and punctuate the notes like rain on roofs.
If I could write poetry,
I would use words like "grave" and "empty"
to fool myself about the depth of my grief.

I would, but I can't.
And instead, I sit and
contemplate the silence of tombs.
I chew my fingers until I see pink,
like the bellies of shells.
I cry in streams and rivers.
Perhaps with enough tears I can
validate my sorrow.
It is not real emotion unless you can
taste the sea.
In crying, I become the dying children
and their grieving mothers.
I am something bigger, something stronger, something better
than an unsure kid with the blues.
If I could make my pain poignant,
at least it would mean something.

It would, but it doesn't.
And instead, I sit and
contemplate nothing.
And pretend that it is
Something Else.