I’ll take the lead here and showcase various terrible poems that I’ve written since 1994. Expect some lazy tropes, teenage angst, lots of crossed analogies that don’t really add anything substantive to the narrative. I will do my best to publish them as is without any major edits. I will correct spelling if I stumble across anything really egregious. Prepare yourselves for a round of terrible poetry.
Actually now that I think of it, this could be a monthly serial of all of my needless poetry. I’m dead certain I have enough for a few lengthy entries here. I should place a caveat here, that in my hey day, my hand writing was minuscule and sort of atrocious. So I can not guarantee that the original thought or intent will remain intact. Might have to guess at a word or two, seeing as I’m now twenty five almost twenty six years older than when I wrote these “poems“.
Buckle up folks, an auteur I am not:
1.) Soulless Man Circa 1994
Standing all alone, sits a man on his throne, gazing at a town he once called his home. Never to return to his village of peace, destined to roam, for fear this soul shall cease. Once he was a boy of paradise and joy. Gone, stripped of his city of love. He is led to destroy on the wings of a dove. Cold windy nights spent with heavenly lights, teary eyed fights with only blood in sight, stood he, all alone. Frozen tears are his throne, his old home, now ashes and blackened stone. Shadows cast down, pale whispers, no sound. An empty man, blood of a boy, stains of a memory torn, a life destroyed. Cold and barren is this man, as he stands all alone.
Oh boy, that is some dog shit right there. This is tough. May not have been as good an idea for a writing prompt as I originally thought. This is well before Game of Thrones, or anything of that sort coming into my life, so I guess I was trying to be brooding and moody? On to the next few then, with haste my friends…
2.) None too clear Circa 1994
I looked into the mirror the other day and what I saw shocked me. My reflection pointed to me and said ” You’re skinny, weak and would be better off dead.” I didn’t take too well to my reflection so I pulled the mirror down off the wall, broke off all of the pieces of frame, and shattered the silver backed glass. The next morning I awoke to find the old mirror back upon the wall as if nothing had happened. I stood before my mirror, and starred deeply into my reflection. Our eyes met, but I noticed something strange, for the world was turned around and it wasn’t me but my reflection starring back.
I get what I was going for here, like the old switch aroo, between the real me and the reflection all of a sudden passing through into this plane, and me drawn into the other, but it’s kind of hazy, and not well executed. I have a feeling with the more of these I read, the more certain it will become that I was depressed, or at least morose as an early teen. let’s dig in for another one or two, and then we’ll call it a day for the first of what could be many trips into terrible poetry territory. And no, I am not posting all of them, same are just too awful to share. So think about how bad these are and imagine something either too bizarre, saccharine or melancholy even for me to post twenty fives years later.
3.) Shattered Circa 1994
Shatter the mirrors that look back with distaste. Close up their shutters, so they no longer expose our inner horrors. Nail shut the eyes that glisten, wet and painful. Feel these fragments scatter, lost to the wind, mixed with the clouds, and buried by the dust. See your faces gazing back, held between the mirrors cracks, the glass will shower your soul with tiny pieces of memory, like sand kicked up by a storm. I’m not ready for you to expose me as only a shattered mirror could.
Looks as though I had a thing going regarding mirrors at this point. May’haps it was due to being six feet tall and something like one hundred and ten pounds. Lank greasy hair, and sore limbs. Could be an educated guess, but I’d have to see some photos from that time to really know. Oh, we had also moved that year from a medium town to a small village in rural Ontario, and I’d lost all of my friends to distance and lack of mobility between destinations.
Good God there are a whole lot more terrible poems waiting in my archives, so I can always revisit this again another time sooner or later. I don’t have a schedule for writing topics, I’m just trying to keep things fresh and interesting, and to stay off Facebook® more and more.
Greatwall Studios Graphic Design 