Back for two seconds, peeps. Just long enough to share an absolutely lovely piece of poetry, composed in the main by my brother and I.
At supper, the family was discussing hackneyed poetry and my brother said that under no circumstances could the line, “The rain hides my tears,” be considered hackneyed, as it expressed too ineffable an emotion. At least that was what he would have said if he hadn’t started laughing in the middle. We then proceeded to compose the following glorious poem, trading line for line:
The rain hides my tears,
The thunderclouds represent my fears,
The moon through the clouds leers,
I am mocked by my peers,
I am the son of a parent who had too many beers,
I am only one of society’s cogs and gears.
At this point in time my sister helpfully inserted:
Alas, I wish I could plug my ears.
This cutting criticism of our innermost feelings and our creativity was intolerable:
Your mocking scorn, it sears,
My brother made a gallant attempt to return to the poem:
My death draws near, it appears,
...but our dad ended it with a climactic final line:
My head is cut off by a giant pair of shears.
We should totally publish in Poetry.
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