Why I Hate Poetry

I’m tired. I’m tired of hiding who I am behind incoherent words of poetry.  I am tired of people only ever appreciating a paragraph of true, heartwrenching emotions if it comes in a pretty, dainty, sugarcoated package of conveniently placed adjectives.

I did it again. It’s been engrained into my fingers because I’ve taught myself that people will only listen if what I have to say is pretty and unharsh to the ears, or otherwise it is lost in space. Bluntness is under-appreciated and therefore scorned as a boring essay.

Well I say, screw it.

I could write a paragraph about the intricate eccentricities of my puny, unimportant life. In fact, I did. I actually just wrote a couple paragraphs of unabashed truth about myself. I was the freaking gospel.

But I erased it. Cause the pure, blunt honesty of it all made me uncomfortable.

Then again, maybe that’s the reason why we like to write pretty words, why we can’t escape it. We are hiding behind the sheer lace curtain of poetry.



My eyes are so goddamn tired. I feel a deep thrum around the crescents of my eyelids which begs me to close my eyes and keep them that way. The sensation of throbbing in my forehead aches to get attention, and is urging me to go to sleep and dream about a distant future where I am completely happy. There is a tingling in my long fingers and cramped toes, and the familiar warmth of my bedsheets call to me from home. I just want to be unconscious and smell the crisp detergent in my pillow case that so often lulls me to sleep. I want to watch through my eyelids the light which peeks from between my blinds, dancing on the ceiling, and breathe in the cold air that exists outside my plush comforter set blanket.
Instead I sit and listen to the instrumental of people’s voices and pretend I am paying the slightest bit of attention, as my mind wanders beyond the hidden horizon masked by the stubborn black trees. I glare at the indifferent grayness of the sky outside the window, as the sound of heavy footsteps pierce my ears in beat with my heart.
My eyes are so goddamn tired…


The peculiar sensation of being sick.

Now, I realize that the topic of malady has been suggested and turned and simmered and digested enough by everyone, especially for anyone currently in the northern hemisphere. But I do believe that if I don’t effectively purge my system of the somber and miscellaneous reaction to feeling ill, I’m pretty sure I just might explode into a horrible, comical, quite heated rant that will never end.

Continue reading “Germs”

I don’t think babies realize how damn fortunate they are. All they gotta do is sleep and eat, and they get to be in a carriage all day and be carried around. It’s a shame I can’t remember being a baby. It’s all I’d ever think about.