流浪狸

It’s the first of many poetry write-ups, this one. The poem I’d like to share with you today was written during the ten minutes immediately following my 4-unit English class today. The poem is a metaphor for superficiality; but even that is also a metaphor for something else…

Ghost Writer

In retrospect, his meaning was too shallow.
The real reason, the only reason he had
Was to satisfy himself in the eyes of others.
He didn’t want anything to do with it,
Really, if you ask him,
He’ll say he told you so.

She didn’t want anything to do with it either,
    (although she did seem fine when I asked,)
She just wanted to fit in,
Be like the rest of them. That life was
Never her life.

And then the sweetest taste of
Honey, on her lips and his,
Stealing away like the night, and their
Poetry – their poetry was not their own;

All anyone ever asked of them
Was their story, ripped and drawn out;
Until the final reckoning of the people
Reveals their mistakes, and forgives them.