Rocks and Daggers

I lied.

I have things to say.

I got a haircut today,

And it's way too mod for me.

I hate it.

Bangs don't look good on me.

I'm sitting here, wrestling with this stupid poem again,

Threatening to just rewrite the whole damn thing before I go insane,

Because it won't cooperate.

It. Will. Not.

And I hate talking about poetry.

There is quite possibly only one person that I can talk about poetry with, without feeling like a total idiot.

One.

The rest of the population makes it awkward, doesn't know what they're talking about, or makes me feel like a loser when the word "poetry" crosses my god-forsaken lips.

But as much help as I've been given with this poem,

It refuses to be tamed,

It won't let me trim it and groom it and just make it pretty.

It's like a stupidly pampered lap dog, this poem is.

And maybe I will rewrite it.

Maybe that'd just be better.

Then maybe I could anchor the stanzas, so that the order would matter and make sense,

And I could find some other phrase much less idiotic than "Tear-water".

And I find it ironic that this is a poem about a muse,

And yet the muses are certainly not helping me out here.

And it's a poem about my favourite thing, the sea.

For crying out loud,

This should be simple.

But it's so unruly.

It's ridiculous.

And titles?

Don't even get me started.

Because I'm still grasping at straws in that area, too.

And with that stupid APUSH test on Monday,

I won't have much time to work on poems tomorrow.

And somehow,

I'm thinking this whole finding-a-title thing isn't going to cooperate either.

Mind if I take a minute to damn things?

Sure you don't.

Things I am currently damning:

Andrew Jackson

John C. Calhoun.

The Mexican-American War.

Hyphens.

Unruly poetry.

Mondays.

The thought of Mondays.

Tests on Mondays.

Biology.

Rap music.

There you go.

I saw this thing on tv, once.

On Oprah, I think,

Where this lady wrote down things that were bothering her, things that made her sad,

And then she caught them on fire,

In a little dish, while she sat on a sofa with Oprah.

And she said afterwards that she felt much better.

Maybe even enlightened.

I'm up for some spiritual cleansing.

I'm up for just throwing in the towel at this point.

Thank god for the time change...

An extra hour of sleep...

It feels like it needs to be New Year's,

So that I can make a vow to do better,

I need a blank slate.

And you can't just start 11/12 of the way through the year, now can you?

I have to wait for the blank slate

That I'll inevitably ruin, too.

Just like the others.

So here's for sleeping off the hours that you just don't want to face.

Huzzah.

Now off to bed, with flannel pajamas and two comforters, for I do hate the cold.

Adieu.

Sleep tight.