Angeline
Poet Chick
- Joined
- Mar 11, 2002
- Posts
- 27,156
Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: I hate this poem.
Neal
Although I am the first to say
that pacifistic is the way to be,
and--dang--I’d protest any war,
and feel that violence is so not me,
I do confess there is one issue
on the hate thing that I must address.
Not that I hate just anyone, you see:
I do despise the sea of vast and murky
generality in which we swim, and
I am loud in my protest of unfair treatment
of any group and even want the wrongs
against the whales and such redressed.
Ok. I’m beating round the bush; I’ll say it
spit it out, admit it, tell the tale right here.
I now this truth to all the world reveal:
I really hate my cousin Neal.
So ok hate's a damn strong word and I don't
mean to sound so wacky and absurdly focused
on some kid who's now a man and whom,
in spite of the desire of my id to murder
right now on the spot, I haven't even seen,
have not for many many years, and it is
equally as many since I cried the bitter tears
that came each year when being told
on turkey day AGAIN I wasn’t old enough
to stay with the adults, but had to sit
at the kid table next to Neal, which meant
I suffered the ordeal of watching as he
mooshed his food together on his plate
and tried hard not to look at all the squishy
icky stuff chewed up and hangin in his mouth
cause he would never close it when he ate.
And then that awful early summer's day,
the last of grade 3, walking home I looked
and saw two figures walking on their way
to me--my mother and HIM (the antichrist
of cousins) and heard my mother's insincerely
happy voice inform that HE had come to stay
for two whole weeks, and I would have to move
my junk out of my room so HE could have some
space and use the bottom bunk. Yes it was bad
cause every night he kicked my mattress from
the bottom jolting me awake until I got so mad
that I jumped down and put my pillow on his head!
And…oh. You think I killed him? Think Neal’s dead?
Nah. I only scared him, just enough until he fled
and bothered me no more, but the point is that
hate is one bad sore affliction to almost make me
on that night make old Neal meet his fate.
(Although, in retrospect I have to say that,
God almighty, doing that felt great.)
I’m ok now. I really am. I’m grown and I have
children of my own and live each day with patience
and have learned the art of compromise and do
believe that I can recognize the difference between
the ancient angry thoughts inside my head and
what is real, but listen keep this to yourself ok?
But damn denial: I hate my cousin Neal.
WickedEve said:
Neal
Although I am the first to say
that pacifistic is the way to be,
and--dang--I’d protest any war,
and feel that violence is so not me,
I do confess there is one issue
on the hate thing that I must address.
Not that I hate just anyone, you see:
I do despise the sea of vast and murky
generality in which we swim, and
I am loud in my protest of unfair treatment
of any group and even want the wrongs
against the whales and such redressed.
Ok. I’m beating round the bush; I’ll say it
spit it out, admit it, tell the tale right here.
I now this truth to all the world reveal:
I really hate my cousin Neal.
So ok hate's a damn strong word and I don't
mean to sound so wacky and absurdly focused
on some kid who's now a man and whom,
in spite of the desire of my id to murder
right now on the spot, I haven't even seen,
have not for many many years, and it is
equally as many since I cried the bitter tears
that came each year when being told
on turkey day AGAIN I wasn’t old enough
to stay with the adults, but had to sit
at the kid table next to Neal, which meant
I suffered the ordeal of watching as he
mooshed his food together on his plate
and tried hard not to look at all the squishy
icky stuff chewed up and hangin in his mouth
cause he would never close it when he ate.
And then that awful early summer's day,
the last of grade 3, walking home I looked
and saw two figures walking on their way
to me--my mother and HIM (the antichrist
of cousins) and heard my mother's insincerely
happy voice inform that HE had come to stay
for two whole weeks, and I would have to move
my junk out of my room so HE could have some
space and use the bottom bunk. Yes it was bad
cause every night he kicked my mattress from
the bottom jolting me awake until I got so mad
that I jumped down and put my pillow on his head!
And…oh. You think I killed him? Think Neal’s dead?
Nah. I only scared him, just enough until he fled
and bothered me no more, but the point is that
hate is one bad sore affliction to almost make me
on that night make old Neal meet his fate.
(Although, in retrospect I have to say that,
God almighty, doing that felt great.)
I’m ok now. I really am. I’m grown and I have
children of my own and live each day with patience
and have learned the art of compromise and do
believe that I can recognize the difference between
the ancient angry thoughts inside my head and
what is real, but listen keep this to yourself ok?
But damn denial: I hate my cousin Neal.
Can't you feel my poetry-hate?
