Read, Recycle, Write Poetry

So I know I just wrote a post about how people shouldn't write poetry 'cause they suck at it, but here I am writing some poetry and hopefully it doesn't suck and then I won't be such a hypocrite. For the record, Riese is currently not in New York, but on a fucking boat in Mexico. Since New York is where she lives that's how it happened in the poem. This all started because Laura wrote me an email about being stuck inside because her transit system thing was on strike and she was cuddling with her dog, then I had too many feelings about life so I had to write words.

Also I'd just like to point out that I think writing things down fictionalizes them. Once it's written down it takes on a life of its own, whatever 'it' is.

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Do you think I'm a jerk because I answer harshly sometimes?

I've been taught to be defensive.

I get sad too, you know.

I get sad when it's midnight

and Riese is gone (she's in New York)

and Laura is lonely (she's got a dog).

Do you know what it takes to look in the mirror sometimes?

I've been taught to be obsessed.

I get tired too, you know.

I get tired in the morning

and my dad is gone (he has a job)

and Tina is asleep (she has time).

Do you know how it hurts to see you walk by sometimes?

I've been taught to stay away.

I get desperate too, you know.

I get desperate after school

and Esmé is gone (she is smarter)

and Val is gone (she works).

Do you cry on the way home sometimes?

I listen to Bon Iver and it hurts.

I get damaged too, you know.

It's all this time I spent alone

when Riese is gone (she's in New York)

and Laura is lonely (she's got a dog).

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Congratulations.

I hate you.

Yes, I'm bitter.

Yes, I'm jealous.

Yes, I'm mad you're seeing someone else.

Yes, it hurts.

Congratulations.

Was it easy?

Yes, I'm sad,

yes, I'm foolish,

yes, I realize I'm just bad at it.

Yeah, it hurts.

Fuck off.

I hate you.

Yes, I'm bitter

and jealous and foolish and sad

and, yes, I'm miserable

'cause you're happier now.

So yeah, it does hurt.

Congratulations.

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I'm thinking of investing in a sign:

"I don't know".

Don't ask me why.

I don't know.

Knowing hurts.

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I noticed you got a haircut last weekend.

It's nice, I like it.

No really, it's cute.

I like it when you wear canvas shoes and plaid shirts

and black framed glasses.

They're cute, really.

I look for you on de Maisonneuve sometimes

but you quit smoking the day I started.

My chest hurts.

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I have this urge to quote a song

but it doesn't sound as good when I say it.

Listening hurts.

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I cry on the way home sometimes.

I listen to Bon Iver and it hurts.

And I miss all the people that are gone.

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And loving hurt,

so I took a nap.

And a nap was all it took to forget your face for a while.

I woke up and it was very clear:

Shower, study, drink tea.

Read, recycle, write poetry.

Love.

And I miss all the people that are gone.