Alright, friends. A solid draft of poem numero uno seems to be at a place where I feel moderately comfortable sharing it. I imagine I’ll mess with it a bit before I turn it in Monday, but I’d love to know what you cats think. Really though. Any criticism is welcome. Any at all. It would actually be greatly appreciated since I’m going to have to face the music and accept the fact that, once again, people are going to read my writing and criticize it for the next thirteen weeks or so, so you might as well join in the fun. This is one of those would-you-tell-me-if-I-had-crap-in-my-teeth situations (but a bit more important). So, this is poem number one. The prompt, besides the technical details of rhyme and lines and stanzas such, is to write a poem in the voice of a plant, animal, or inanimate object. Ready, go!
“From a Cigarette to the Surgeon General”
Dear Surgeon General,
Never an attempt to understand?
No mercy for the surrender to vice
You hold in your hand.
How dare you delete the relief I provide,
Comfort pressing between knuckles
That hold pens writing
Words that burn more than I.
No one tries to fix you quickly,
Twelve steps to your recovery
Waltz symphonies of exhales,
Three quarter notes until you’re free.
I am your grandfather’s worn coat,
Summertime’s steering wheel bouquet.
I am memory’s kind casket,
Locked within inked lungs’ decay.
Dear messenger of potential,
Austere hands of fate,
How little you know of how it feels
To decompose and be composed of hate.