I hate poetry. It's too pithy for my verbose inclinations. I have Shakespeare this semester. That, and Blake, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Byron, Keats, Tennyson, Browning, Rossetti, Eliot, Yeats, Woolf, Thomas, Auden, and a host of other idealistic tramps whose names escape me; not to mention Filipino poets (Bulosan, Villa, and others); all of whom are the most boring of bores Nature has ever invented. Fuck poetry! I have short attention span, if you mind, ICW.

I don't even get why I have poetry in my course checklist. Even my theory and criticism class is bleeding with poetry garbagery. For what I know, I am majoring in fiction and nonfiction, NOT poetry. Never took any poetry class of my own volition, no, never. I haven't the patience to read any, much less chew it and swallow it and fart it out through my own inked substandard "poetry" (if you call it that).

Goodbye abandoned playground. Sob. The abandoned playground choked with slithering vines and weeds, my salvage area for chopped body parts, the dramatic backdrop for my depressing days; it serves a vessel to pour my repressed emotions. Aye, you there, vine, snaking up the monkey bar and pulling it into the selfsame earth that bore you. I haven't the guts to salvage my monkey bar from rust and decay and death. My childhood memories painted in rainbow colors around it, I let the vines sink and swallow them in, to begone, my past, my youth, oh, my innocence.

Nag-emo sa damo amputa.XD

The owner of the village has this playground behind our house cleared and cleaned and painted anew with bright cheerful colors. No longer can I wallow in my grief and silence; children's voices screaming and cursing fill the place and ring into my room. The vines gripping the monkey bar of my monkey childhood, they're all gone, cut and dumped into a garbage truck to rot and die with other useless things.

In short: Ang ingay na dito! I want my weeds and vines back, gaddamnit!

As I was saying, I hate poetry. There's more to life than poetry. I'd rather study the science of toilets and plumbing than read poetry. Professors, stop forcing me to fucking "get it". I'm so sick of being taught HOW TO READ. Just when in world history has man ever been told how to fucking read and interpret a frickin text? I know how to read poetry, mind you. I just find the experience pointless and forgettable. Duh, emotions are too fickle and manageable to even write about. What the feelings! What the heart! What the emotions! What the fart!XP Fuck poetry! Fuck this whole semester of Shakesfuckingpeare! Gaaaaaaaad. (Calm down, Tobey, calm down. Remember spontaneous overflow of emotions recollected in tranquility? Forget that. This is your blog and you can scream whenever you want.) Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

After years of reading poetry in school, I still don't get it. I mean, what the fuck? Is there something wrong with me? Why are all these wrinkled old warts teaching this thing?

Word Up

Word did you say?

« Penispectators :: My Somewhat-Ultimate Reading List »