I’m Sorry To Inform You But…
I cannot write poetry for you today
for it is May
and my birthday was yesterday.
So don’t you think that instead
I should spend today with a friend?
And my grades are suffering.
They’re all below what’s acceptable
by my mother’s gracious standards of
“no C’s and you’ll live to be 17.”
I like to be alive.
(So shouldn’t I do my homework instead?)
Oh, and I need to clean my room,
(it’s been on holiday for far too long.)
It’s now a delightful mix of scattered clothing,
mutated hairy spiders,
those video games I borrowed from Chris,
mounds of dust,
and the random black hole
(that eats everything up.)
As you can see I have far too much to do…
So can’t the written words wait for me
for another day (or a month or possibly a year?)
It’s not like they’re losing much,
or have anything to fear;
they like breaks too.
Or will they attack instead
when I should be in bed?
Will I be awoken tonight
to a stumbling fright of nauseous characters
that will spew their stories all over me?
And force me
at daggers point
to record all their villainous and heroic thoughts?
Or will they take one look at me,
and then like a fan who just read
a gramatically incorrect and very out of character filled
Will they leave me with only shattered memories of what they once were?
On second thought…
I think I’ll take your advice.
Tonight I’ll write until I pass out in delight.