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"Make good of bad,
and friends of foes"
Bad poetry
Bad poetry is an artform in itself. I think it takes more skill to write
consistently terrible verse than consistently mediocre. And, because of that, I must
claim that my early poetic years were the most skilled ever seen.
Cheesy rhymes, overdone angst, dramatic declarations of undying love, abstruse
construction, and pretense, I did it all.
So, for the brave of spirit, read on.
Bad poetry
Very bad poetry
Poetry so bad I'm embarrassed to admit I wrote it
Poetry so bad I'll try to claim someone else wrote it
Bad poetry
If only I could make you love me again
If only you ever had.
If only I could believe you were still mine.
If only you ever were.
Oh, the pain! The heartache!
Why are you sleeping?
Let's play, let's play!
I'm now watching
the shining sun
Jump up, jump up!
Day is half gone away
And our frolics
have not yet begun.
Come on, lazy brother
don't wait! I hate
When you linger so long.
There's no need for you
to be sleeping so late
Come on, be up
with a song!
What, now, mother,
you cry, you weep!
Why do tears fall
from your eyes?
Oh no, brother
is only asleep
I'll know it when
my brother dies.
I have three older brothers. Apparently, at the age of about
twelve, I decided that was at least one brother too many. This is the first of my
terribly warped "dead brother" series.
Where are you going to, brother?
Where are you going gone?
Why aren't you here with us, brother?
Where is the war you have won?
Why did you stay there, brother?
Facing the far-reaching guns?
You might still be with us, brother
If you'd thrown down you weapon and run.
But that is the coward's way, brother
Your valiant death was but one.
Cowards die a thousand deaths, brother,
But your valiant death was but one.
If any of my brothers are reading this, at least I made you heroes
before I killed you off. I must really have liked this poem because I rewrote
it. Which version is suckier? You be the judge.
Where are you going to brother?
Where are you going, gone?
Where is the fighting now, brother?
Where is the war you have won?
Can you hear the silence, my brother
Without the guns booming so loud?
What were you fighting for, brother
The flag that became your shroud?
Can you see the sunrise now, brother?
Can you feel the frost biting air?
Where are you going to brother?
And do they have sunrises there?
In this second rendition, I traded in patriotism for pathos.
Gee, my brother must've been a great guy...
Click here if you want to run away from the
sucky poetry!
Not ready to quit yet? You will be, you will beeee.
Really bad poetry
You touched me,
not with your hand but with your love
You saw me,
not with you eyes but with your heart
You moved me
not with your force but with your words
You knew me,
not with you mind but with your soul.
Aw, isn't that sweet? I was inclined toward this sort of
overblown sentiment, it seems, as the next poem will also attest.
Give me the freedom to work, and I can
fill valleys, level mountains;
Give me the freedom to live, and I can
build nations;
Give me the power to destroy, and I will
create;
Give me your love and I will live!
I always distrust poetry that ends with an exclamation point.
Even worse is poetry that ends with four or five exclamation points!!!!!
Mother Moon, we come full-circle.
Our feet beat the path.
The Earth hears the tune.
The unlife, life, unlife.
The circle is complete.
I think this qualifies as an utterly pointless attempt at poetry.
Click here if your brain is about to
explode from sucky poetry overload.
Keep scrolling if you're utterly mad. Mad I say!
Embarrassingly bad
poetry
I don't understand.
I have friendship.
I have love
I have knowledge
I have intelligence.
I have talent
I have humor
I feel sadness.
I don't understand.
Now, I don't understand why in the hell I wrote this.
I don't understand how anyone would write this could have friends.
I don't understand why anyone would love someone who would write this.
If I had so much knowledge, why couldn't I tell that this was a sucky poem?
If I had so much intelligence why didn't I realize that I couldn't write?
If I was so talented why did I write sucky poems?
I feel humor now at reading this.
I feel sad that I ever liked it.
I don't understand!
It is forgotten
News of your deeds has bypassed
A shadow that disappears with the coming of the sun.
Your death is lost
In a memory of time and
Timelessness.
You footsteps sound hollow to my ears.
And your prints are erased by a rain,
Windstorm.
Your guns have rusted
Your saddle rotted away
Your horses died.
The towns where you were known are
Abandoned.
The people who once knew you are gone.
The cattle you marked with your hand
Destroyed by an endless cycle of harshness.
The men you killed are forgotten
The men who killed you, forgotten too
The marker of your grave, your bones, fallen to dust
Your life is over and except for my words,
It is forgotten.
Thus began my western phase which was mercifully short. Only
two poems survive. I guess Ohio isn't conducive to thoughts of deserts and cowboys.
My coffee had grown cold
As I waited for the cream and
Traced patterns in the dust beneath my
Fingertips. She approached from the west,
Back straight—striding tall; a limp
Feather the only decoration;
She entered; it calmed and the
Quiet was louder than a storm
By the sea. Spoke to the Man
He shrugged, shook his head
She left the way she had come
Back straight—striding tall;
I could feel the hot breeze on my
Cheeks as I followed the footprints
She'd made; see her in the distance
A spot, tinged with grey, heading west
Back straight—striding tall;
The track led deep and crossed the
Desert. Past cactus in full bloom.
A wide plain, far from life, narrow
Path halfway through, only to stop mid-stride
Back bent—crouching low;
Feather gone.
Thus ended my western phase. This is one of my very few assays
into realism. Of course, it isn't realistic, but it is far more concrete than
usual. Of course, reading it now, it's obvious I made a good choice abandoning this
style of writing.
Click here if you would rather have the
inside of your nose waxed than read more sucky poetry.
Keep scrolling if you want the final indignity.
Bruce's poetry
Forgive me,
I am but young and immature
Young in experience
Poor in wisdom
Old in love.
Wow. This one is so bad I'm going to claim a guy named Bruce
wrote it. Doesn't Bruce write sucky poetry?
Email me:
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