A Trip Down Memory Lane

I have been going through some old notebooks and journals of mine from when I was still a film student. The bulk of these were written when I was probably 19 or 20, which was about 3-4 years ago. Almost all of it is ridiculously embarrassing and I am going to destroy the bulk of them pretty soon, but some of them were actually kind of neat to go through. So I tore out a few of the poems and drawing I did that weren't that bad so that I can save them for posterity's sake. I'm going to share three of the poems/rhymes I wrote below. Enjoy and go easy on me. I promise I haven't written a poem in probably at least 3 years.

P.S. I'm including the titles that I originally gave the poems. Also, all of these were originally written in my horribly rote cursive that I hadn't used since 3rd grade but that I used with them because I probably thought it was more "artistic" or something.

"Sloppy in Style, Spelling, Punctuation, Grammar, and Flow - Yet Surprisingly Optimistic Poem"

When night has come, and doused the sun, to my waiting bed I run. Before I fall, as dead as leaves or weeds or anything at all, I crawl to the floor and thank the Lord for letting me live in this world at all. For in this life we are given choices, and with these choices come voices. Telling us which path to follow, some of them completely hollow. But others are filled with awe and wonders and these we should take above all others. So the only thing we have to fear is fear, that is undoubtedly clear. Fear comes with the voices that make evil choices, and try to take our free will so dear.

I actually like this poem because it has almost a classic quality to it. The way it flows in the beginning. I'm not quite sold on the last sentence. I feel like I could have beefed it up a little or at least kept the lyrical rhythm I had going. Oh well. Next:

"Stupid Poem #8"

If one were to transplant a brain, would the love contained within remain? Or would it stay, left behind, for the new owner of the old body to discover in time? I do not believe that love is so cold that it cannot exist without a soul. But what is a soul if not the creation of the mind? Something designed to help everyone find something in existance to help them put distance between the present and the end of time.

I like this poem because it also has a nice flow to it. And it ends better than the last one did. Also, the syllables fit really well at the end, unlike the last one. Moving on:

"Stupid Poem #9"

Entwined by the wine, they hoped for a sign to prove their lust was just. And just in time they received a sign when their genitals were turned to dust. Rusty, musty, crusty, and dusty was how they lived out their days. Living with the knowledge that perversion never pays.

I was (and still am) a huge Edward Gorey fan, and I'm pretty sure I wrote this right when I was starting to get into him. It's obviously a blatant rip-off of his style, but I still like it.

Well, I hope that wasn't too painful for anyone. I promise I'm done with poetry.