You’re Still Poisoning My Poetry and I’m the Volunteered Puppet

In the deepest part of my deadly diary

The part where you don’t even write ‘dear diary’

Rather an anonymous date perhaps as proper proof of ‘here I am’

Flipping the frail pages so far back because you might you actually give a damn

Way in the back, on a pointless page

Lies a date and a little list that sets the stage

A list of things that make me want to punch a wall

Who the hell has a literal list of things that make them want to punch a wall?

Wasn’t it so much easier when I wanted to play with dolls?

And there are only three things on that list

Including the first boy I ever kissed

Writing in charming cursive claims

Three names

Your name

Holds first place

But down two spaces

In last place

Is my own name

And that changes the game

Because sometimes I want to correct the corrupted caption to

‘People I’d like to punch in the face’

Yet in every case

I remember I can’t punch myself

That would be an inconvenience for my health

So I conclude that a wall will do for now

Flip a few more pages to find a different report

In scribbles I write a love note of sorts:

To the boisterous, bad boy who used me some summer ago

Here are a few things I never want you to know

I am still writing petty, poetry about you

Your thought is still the kerosene to my fast, fiery spew

I don’t really get it

How pretty, poetry cures the sorrowed soul

Because I still don’t feel whole

And there wasn’t anything beautifully poetic

About being a plagued puppeteer’s first puppet, first petrified prey

It’s really a cliché that people are supposed to relate to meaty metaphors and sappy similes

As though it is easier

To relate to

The mirror bought just to be shattered for an art project

Than it is to relate to

Someone with our own flesh and blood

Throwing out tenacious truths into the empty exposed air

Hoping someone out there actually could care

Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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