more bad poetry. practice for school, i suppose.
Instead of writing poetry on the
Topic of finding lost bits of summer,
Let me speak on where I know the summer
Went, since cliché poems are in themselves,
A waste of time. I know I worked my job
Over as a baker kneads a well known
Customer’s dough, giving tours by the
Half hour heat, and meeting people that
Hail from far far away. I kept close eye
On kids of a younger sort and forgot
For a second the woes of growing up
And instead focused on woes involved in
Helping kids grow up, not a fun business
In the least. Déjà vu. I spent countless
Hours driving friends, family and my
Self to and from places around this bitter-
Sweet city, utilizing such
A bittersweet responsibility.
I know I spent lots of time my friends,
Although I can’t recall what we did all
Summer. Shows, hanging out? And not enough
Frisbee. And that’s a case in point. Although
I can pluck out bad iambs denoting
The occupation of the break, I can
Count on one hand the events that deserve
Counting, and some do fall with faltering
Fingers. So summer two-thousand seven,
You brought nothing but more than more calendar
Days, and a tail-end of ridiculous
Heat. May you begone forever and let me
Transition into school just like every
Other year, forever. May you let no
Other of your kind grace my presence, since
I cannot say that ‘I made it happen.’
Topic of finding lost bits of summer,
Let me speak on where I know the summer
Went, since cliché poems are in themselves,
A waste of time. I know I worked my job
Over as a baker kneads a well known
Customer’s dough, giving tours by the
Half hour heat, and meeting people that
Hail from far far away. I kept close eye
On kids of a younger sort and forgot
For a second the woes of growing up
And instead focused on woes involved in
Helping kids grow up, not a fun business
In the least. Déjà vu. I spent countless
Hours driving friends, family and my
Self to and from places around this bitter-
Sweet city, utilizing such
A bittersweet responsibility.
I know I spent lots of time my friends,
Although I can’t recall what we did all
Summer. Shows, hanging out? And not enough
Frisbee. And that’s a case in point. Although
I can pluck out bad iambs denoting
The occupation of the break, I can
Count on one hand the events that deserve
Counting, and some do fall with faltering
Fingers. So summer two-thousand seven,
You brought nothing but more than more calendar
Days, and a tail-end of ridiculous
Heat. May you begone forever and let me
Transition into school just like every
Other year, forever. May you let no
Other of your kind grace my presence, since
I cannot say that ‘I made it happen.’