Execrable Poetry - Volume I

I began to experiment with writing at a fairly young age.  For example, in the second grade an episode of The Real Ghostbusters inspired me to write a torn-from-spiral-bound-notebook paper novel (complete with tattered edges) that was essentially a complete ripoff (i.e., childish re-imagining) of Episode 3-10: The Grundel.

And no, I did not have to Google that information.

Shortly thereafter, and despite the fact that home computers were taking root, my parents purchased a typewriter (yes, a typewriter) and my life-long lust for writing was ignited.  I would spend my ample free time clacking away at the dining room table, covering any blank sheet of paper I could find with typo-laden, 10-pitch walls of pseudo-creative tripe inspired by whatever I did that day or whatever movie I watched that week.

In short, I invented the modern day blog, sans computer and ease of electronic distribution.

I wrote a short story about environmentalists fighting whalers where the whalers win (suck it Whale Wars).  Another was set in a fantasy world of dragons, kings and magic that was, in my estimation, one thousand times worse than the most contemptible elf-centric fantasy fiction you can find today.  I wrote Diehard 2 before there was Diehard 2: Die Harder.  Of note in my version, Hans Gruber miraculously survives the multi-story fall at the end of the first film and continues (presumably from at least a coma) to make John McClane's life a living, slow motion explosion-filled hell.  Sadly, none of these unpolished gems survived to present day, in any form.

I will allow you a moment to mourn.

I began writing serious pieces as a freshman in high school since, unlike many of my male classmates, I did not have the burden of girls taking up all of my free time—and by serious I mean juvenile poetry of the most angst-ridden and banal nature.  The type of literary squalor that can only spawn from the mind of a child whose first live concert—by choice—was Meatloaf.

I present to you, unedited, my very first attempt at serious artistic expression.  So, put on your smoking jacket, run your fingers thoughtfully through your soul patch and suppress the urge to vomit.  Oh, and if you're wondering about the random capitalization, odd punctuation and/or seemingly superfluous "structure"—just know that it's all very deep and symbolic.

Don't worry, I'm struggling to keep a straight face too.

NEED

Wanting all of her but she wants None of me
Well as near as I can tell that is,
but then what the hell do I Know?
After all, I'm the one who thinks they're in love
    And left all alone…
She could have Anyone, but I just want her.
I need her, can't she complete me?
With her I'd be complete,
Without her I am simply me.
All that I need, all that I ask, all that I could ever hope for,
Is the one chance I'll never get.
Hold her momentarily in my arms, knowing she is mine.
And at that Moment time stops, with me living life, as I should.
With her…knowing I have her, and knowing that she needs me Too.

Wow, that's gonna' leave a stain.  In retrospect, my perceived innocent and naive "love" is kind of hiding-in-the-shadows stalker-ish.  Who knew?  With all due respect to Oscar Wilde, sometimes shitty poetry is just that.

.shiTtY*

Hopefully this will serve as a personal reminder of the progress I've made.  At the very least, I hope it inspires at least one young writer to say, "Shit.  I can do better than that."

*Please note, this unorthodox capitalization and punctuation is very deep and very symbolic.