improv
one of my buddies is putting poetry on his journal. his stuff is serious and good, but since i'm high on carbs right now i can't fathom putting down anything real. so i'm going to attempt an improvised poem and see how it ends up. constructive literary critiques are welcome. pschoanalysis and interpretations are greatly appreciated. think of this as an exercise in creativity. take advantage of this opportunity while you're waiting for the cookies to bake or if you're escaping family.
bloom and flower like a bud in spring
this rockstar is fresh
light on his feet
and heavy with heartache
a wounded dream boat
sailing my way in a drunken doozy
i'll gather you in my arms
like flowers in a field drowning in torrential deluge of teardrops and tequila
blue agave is number one, like you are to me
or are you?
and suddenly your tune has changed
punk rock emo gives way to a younger 80s dance rock
and my cookies are crumbling in confusion
ok, that totally sucks. here, let me try that again. (skip this if you're in a rush).
candlelight draws out the shadows
and beckons the spirits to rise to our heads
figures flicker and fly across the wall
and your kohl-lined eyes smolder with the exciting uncertainty of a new adventure in an old, dark, abandoned barn that has been rumored to house the ghosts of wenches who operated a small business in the third stall behind the haystack in the 1870s, the decade your ancestors left the rice paddies of ballyhoo and flew with their gossamer wings to the land of tit for tat, only to end up serving fried, julienned potatoes to rich merchants coming in from retired ships that should have burned in hell but were strong enough to burn in hell and come back as metal containers that could fry eggs without the eggs sticking to the surface, a miracle that was bought by the goddess of love who planted this nonstick coating into the hearts of everyone so her name would still be worshipped even after bloody, still-beating hearts were carelessly broken, violently shattered, and sadistically perforated with rusty bullets from an ak-47.
alright, the carbs are making me sleepy so i'm going away now. but yeah, that last one sucked too. goodnight!
bloom and flower like a bud in spring
this rockstar is fresh
light on his feet
and heavy with heartache
a wounded dream boat
sailing my way in a drunken doozy
i'll gather you in my arms
like flowers in a field drowning in torrential deluge of teardrops and tequila
blue agave is number one, like you are to me
or are you?
and suddenly your tune has changed
punk rock emo gives way to a younger 80s dance rock
and my cookies are crumbling in confusion
ok, that totally sucks. here, let me try that again. (skip this if you're in a rush).
candlelight draws out the shadows
and beckons the spirits to rise to our heads
figures flicker and fly across the wall
and your kohl-lined eyes smolder with the exciting uncertainty of a new adventure in an old, dark, abandoned barn that has been rumored to house the ghosts of wenches who operated a small business in the third stall behind the haystack in the 1870s, the decade your ancestors left the rice paddies of ballyhoo and flew with their gossamer wings to the land of tit for tat, only to end up serving fried, julienned potatoes to rich merchants coming in from retired ships that should have burned in hell but were strong enough to burn in hell and come back as metal containers that could fry eggs without the eggs sticking to the surface, a miracle that was bought by the goddess of love who planted this nonstick coating into the hearts of everyone so her name would still be worshipped even after bloody, still-beating hearts were carelessly broken, violently shattered, and sadistically perforated with rusty bullets from an ak-47.
alright, the carbs are making me sleepy so i'm going away now. but yeah, that last one sucked too. goodnight!