This post doesn’t actually have anything to do with him. I just wanted to make sure everyone would know what I mean when I say, “As a teen I wrote meaningful, soul-stirring poetry the way Nicolas Cage turns in understated, subtle performances.”
I can only assume that this first one was intended to reveal that under my fun facade, I was totally all dark and mysterious and stuff. It’s likely no one was properly recognizing or appreciating my deep and complex nature, and left me no option but to cram it down their collective throats through bad poetry.
Cool and lovely,
Envelope me in your midnight shroud,
Let your weight press upon me,
Crush me to a minuscule particle.
Let my entire being fill your emptiness,
Hone every sense to razor sharpness,
But rob me of my sight.
I want only to hear your echoing heartbeat,
Taste the black blood it pumps,
Feel your moist breath rush over my skin,
And smell it’s musty dampness.
Lull me into unconsciousness,
So that you may slip away,
Only to return anon,
of the night.
That’s right, I said anon. All the best poems have words like anon and ne’er and betwixt. That’s how you know whether or not they’re any good.
More often than not, my poems reflected whatever drama I was overreacting to at the time and demonstrated my refusal to embrace the concept of subtlety. But even the most serious poet needs a break from brooding on the windswept cliffs overlooking an angry sea, and for me those breaks are generally something of this nature …
They told her not to play in the street,
But she did whenever she could,
They warned that she’s be hit by a car,
But it didn’t do any good.
Every time they turned around,
She would go running away,
Right into the middle of the road,
It was her favorite place to play.
There were a few near misses,
They said, “I told you so,”
She was scared a bit, then forgot,
And into the street she’d go.
Deep inside she knew they were right,
The inside said, “I’m not in danger, am I?”
Her question was answered quite tragically,
When she was smashed by a semi.
I may have been going through a Shel Silverstein phase here. I loved Sarah Cynthia Silvia Stout Would Not Take The Garbage Out and remember it as being the first time I understood that poems could be silly and still be good. Unfortunately, despite being a big fan of Silverstein, my poems remained primarily in the melodrama genre. But on a positive note, the poetry I once considered so serious and meaningful, is now funnier than anything Silverstein-esque I might have taken a stab at.