Highly unexpected.

This was the last thing I thought I'd ever write, or do--but I spent the last week in an awful lot of art galleries and it got me thinking, and once I started thinking it was hard to stop, and then all of a sudden I sat down on Wednesday night and wrote poetry for the first time in over ten years (I believe the last time I wrote poetry I was in fifth grade, making it a total of...thirteen years (and even then it was just because I was forced to by my teacher and I hated it, so it's really the first time I've ever written poetry)).

Here's some of them, at any rate. I don't know if it's good or not, because poetry's a lot weirder than a story. A story, you can read and it either tells you a story or it doesn't. A poem can do whatever the fuck it wants, and rarely feels the need to explain itself.

So here's some of them, with more to come...if I ever decide to post more of them.

Fine

Are you happy now?

Look at this! I think it's

Terrible, don't you? This is

Not a story at all;

It's something sinister,

Manufactured poetry--

Should I mention my mother?

Maybe some painful

Allusions, bring home the

Drama.

It's your fault, you know. I was

Happy telling stories, but

That wasn't good enough for you, was it?

Hydras! There, a mythological allusion,

To show I'm classy

Well read.

Keep the punctuation sparse,

Use it sparingly, space it out

Over several lines so that people don't

Know how to read it.

There I'm a poet now

Does that make me

An artist?

I've got stories to tell, tales of

The good old days and the

Not so good days and

Boring days but

This will be published

Probably taken seriously

Because you can analyze it

Easily.

Lazy bastards.

Criseyde

Troy burns and she stands on the shore,

Hears the dying,

Watches the smoke claw upward,

Souls on their way to Hades

Or somewhere else.

The ship carries her off

While her lover paces the deck

Impatient to be home

To see where he used to live.

He carries on with the crew,

Knows them all,

And so does she

(Perhaps in more ways

Than one).

She knew it would happen

She is forgotten,

Another trophy

From a war over trophies.

Greece is strange to her

The language is not her own

And the food's not her own

And her home is not her own

But his,

Even though he doesn't go there

Anymore.

It does not bother her.

She smiles in crowds,

She walks through parties

Wearing her mask,

The face she shows the world.

And when the parties are over

She goes home (but home was

Destroyed a long time ago)

And she sits regretting

In the dark

With shades

For company.

Criseyde

You've seen her in class,

Proud at her desk,

Back straight, eyes forward,

Viewing the world

With detached air.

She doesn't say much, nor does she

Seem to be paying attention;

Paying attention is for the

Smart or the stupid

(Depending on who you ask).

In the diners she is

Surrounded by people, always

Smiling, comfortable, collected.

The others walk by

And she smirks

Or says nothing

Or says something

But it's clear they are not the

Same as she.

She's better,

Or worse,

Even though she tries to be

The same.

And when she goes home

(Wherever home is (whatever

Home is)) she goes to

Her room and she

Tries to remember who

She really is

Before the loneliness hits

And she's got to

Ride it out

Like a wave

Or an earthquake

Or a strong wind,

A sinking,

Dipping dance that

Leaves her

Spinning around

Inside her own head

Behind the masks

She can't take off anymore,

Not even when she's alone,

In the dark

With shades for company.