More Crappy High School Poetry

In the interest of preemptively humiliating myself by letting the entire world see what a sap I was in high school, I give you… “She #2.” That’s right, I actually incorporated into the title a subliminal statement about how crappy it is. #2, see? GET IT?! And as for the #2: yeah, I wrote a whole series of these horrible ”She” poems, so prepare yourself for unending dreck about how she is so awesome and I love her so much and she doesn’t love me and oh god I wish I was dead.

Anyway… so, this is my second whine-laden foray into whiny whining about some girl who probably did not really exist. Whining! Actually, as I recall, I kind of had a crush on a freckle-faced, curly-haired brunette around this time and this may have been about her. Just to creepify it even more for you, I did not personally know her, she did not know me, I never met her, and to this day I couldn’t tell you her name if my life depended on it.

I can’t imagine why I didn’t date much in high school.

dropping a literary deuce

She #2 

The blue of her whisper
   falls softly on
      my mind’s pillow.

The rose of her touch
   warms my thoughts
      and soothes them.

The scarlet of her love
   stains my soul with a
      deep red fire.

I love her.

Thoughts and commentary:

  • Just so you know, this poem won first-place in a school-wide poetry contest my senior year. No foolin’! With that in mind, imagine how bad the other entries must have been.
  • To be fair, that first line about the blue of her whisper? Not that bad.
  • That said, comparing my mind to a soft, squishy, down-filled head-cushion? Fan-freaking-tastic.
  • Okay, so we’re using colors to describe her, right? Her touch is, according to the never-infallible Wikipedia: “the color halfway between red and magenta on the HSV color wheel, also known as the RGB color wheel, on which it is at hue angle of 330 degrees.” Who wouldn’t be soothed by that? So soothing.
  • Her touch somehow warms my thoughts, so again, I find myself drawn to a telepath. Apparently, Bryant High School was thick with Jean Grey-types in the late 80s.
  • Ah… finally, the true mark of a hack romantic love poem: droning on and on about my “soul.” That chick I never met and never will meet totally touches my soul, man. MY SOUL. I’m romantic, can’t you see that? PAY ATTENTION TO ME.
  • Wait, she doesn’t touch my soul, she stains it.
  • With fire.
  • “Deep” fire.
  • Somehow.
  • Fire doesn’t stain, ya dope. It burns. It scorches. It carbonizes. Instead of saying “stains my soul,” I should’ve said “carbonizes my innards.” Now that’s romantic language.
  • “I love her.” Really. State the obvious much?

Stay tuned… more awful poetic offal to come!

One Response to “More Crappy High School Poetry”

  1. JJSB Says:

    Excellent! keep this going!

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