Bad Poetry

Posted on February 19, 2016

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What makes a poem bad?

Bad wording. Lack of style. Vagueness, abrupt finishes, and long-windedness.

I’m not supposed to write bad poetry again.

I’m supposed to be better at writing, at saying how I feel in perfectly coherent sentences.

Oscar Wilde once said that all bad poetry comes from genuine feeling.

And believe me, with the amount of feelings that I have for you,

I’d knock Twilight off the “worst books ever” list.

Over and over again.

I’m not supposed to write about this again.

I’m not supposed to write about liking you.

It’s embarrassing.

And I’ve been doing it a lot,

Because I have an appetite for self-destruction.

But I can’t help it,

Even though I know I should.

I’m not supposed to write about how my heart dies a little when I catch a glimpse of you,

Or how I’m trying desperately not to have an outburst,

When my feelings start a moshpit in me again.

I’m not supposed to write about how adorable I think you are hahahaha omg pls

Or how I can’t even explain why I still annoyingly like you

Even though I know I should probably maybe just let things go.

I shouldn’t write about the countless times I was hoping to bump into you

At the same time hoping I wouldn’t

Because, God, I look like a creature from the depths of the underworld.

I’m not supposed to write about wanting so badly to be the first one to approach

Except that I can’t because I really don’t know what to do anymore.

Daydream from a distance, I guess,

Is all I’ve been doing.

This is uncharted territory for me.

I’m really, really, really not used to this.

How could I rev up the attention-giving,

When I don’t even know how to receive attention in the first place?

I don’t know what it’s like to be liked like that.

And let’s face it, we’re not close,

And you’ve got your cool friends and cool girls surrounding you.

Girls.

Cool ones.

What have I got to offer?

All I got is an intense need to stay in bed

And sometimes un-annoying quips about life.

But hey, it’s cool.

I’m fine.

I’ve got plenty of time.

I’m not supposed to write about how you really, really confuse me

Or how I realized that I am completely clueless on how relationships even work.

I just don’t understand why some people find dating easy.

So you just break things off and move on to the next person like that?

How do you do that?

How do you become normal?

It was then that I realized that secretly romantic but blatantly guarded people like me

Have no place in the modern dating world.

I’m not supposed to write about how I’m probably unknowingly rejecting others

Because some part of me is still waiting for you.

Sort of.

I’m not supposed to write about trying really hard to distract myself,

Trying desperately not to let anxiety get the better of me,

And then failing and thinking about you AGAIN.

I should not write about how I think this might have already ended for you,

When that’s not even remotely the case with me.

And if I’m right,

Will you remember that I existed?

Hope you would.

I’m not supposed to write about how I feel guilty for things I’ve unknowingly said and done, I guess

And for overthinking. And thinking. And thinking some more.

And then I say sorry for always saying sorry.

Sorry.

“Love means never having to say you’re sorry” my ass.

Love.

Love, love, love.

This is not supposed to be a love poem.

Or a poem about love.

It’s bad poetry,

That comes from genuine feeling.

I guess this is one of those things I do

To hopefully get some peace of mind tonight.

But in the end, I still have to accept

That things played out like bad poetry with us, I guess.

Bad wording. Lack of style. Vagueness, abrupt finishes, and long-windedness.

But I don’t regret it.

Because like bad poetry,

It came from something true.

 

 

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