Posted in Poetry, The Laughing Box

The Stickle and the Lid

I once saw a stickle
And I observed how sad
This stickle was

He hurt inside like so
Under his lid
Yes his lid
A lid that is on top of his shoe
It keeps the rain off of him

His lid is his home
His home is in a shoe
The shoe is under a roof
The roof is a roof that is torn and tattered
Worn and battered

And this stickle set all alone
Outside of his home
Under his lid
As it rained and rained
He sat there

Crying

And when I saw him
I too wanted to cry
For he looked so sad

Crying

All alone in the rain
Under his lid on top of his shoe
Of a home

But his tears were not made of water and salt
But of chocolate syrup
Yes chocolate syrup

I wondered why he cried
And why his tears were chocolate
I love chocolate
And I wonder if he does too

It doesn’t make any sense I thought
Crying his chocolate
He must be lonely
I must speak to him

But why

He is a stickle
And they’re never sad
But glad
So weird
And now I am scared

He cried
Oh how he cried his chocolate syrup
Then he started to sputter

Walk and talk walk and talk
You walk
Yes walk
You talk all the clock
Yes clock

You use your eating gadget
Yes that thing
That forms your pathetic self

The stickle then looked at me
I looked quickly away
And when I looked back at the stickle
He was glaring at me

Then he jumped up and said

YOU HUMANS
Oh you pathetic
Yes pathetic
HUMANS

Walk talk walk talk

He said this here jazz
As he gawked around
Humoring himself

You think you’re all okay
But you’re not
That’s right you’re not

You rot
You STINK

I raised an eyebrow

WE STINK?
I challenged
stepping closer to him

Realizing that I am much taller than this stickle
I roared

We me I
Do not stink
At least WE
Yes WE
Do not live in a shoe
Yes a shoe

And at least WE are not a piece of poo
You
You
YOU

STICKLE

I shouted
Staring at him
Fuming

He laughed
Yes he laughed

Which took me by surprise

Then he started to cry

Under his lid
In his home in a shoe
The shoe is under a roof
The roof is a roof that is torn and tattered
Worn and battered

And then I asked him
Out of pure curiosity

Stickle, why do you cry
Why do you cry chocolate syrup

Standing up abruptly once more
He answered

You HUMANS
All you humans torture and hurt yourselves and others
I am crying for YOU
For hope that you will learn to love
And not torture yourselves and others
As I have

You and your perfect world
You think everything is okay
And everyone is happy
BUT
Yes but

You don’t completely think of everyone
What about ME and my kind
What are we supposed to do
We learn about you humans
Studying you every day
But you do nothing
Yes nothing
For us

I cry for you
And your country

It will rot human
Yes rot
It may not happen today
But someday
Yes someday
And I will not cry for you
Because when it happens
You will not deserve my tears
No not my tears

He sat back down
Grumbling and mumbling

I stared at the stickle
Under his lid
In the rain

Mumbling and crying

I was shocked that such a creature
Could be so smart
And he knew the truth
For he observed

And now I wonder
What will happen to us
To them

I looked again at the stickle

Crying

Under his lid
His home of a shoe
Under the roof that is torn and tattered
Worn and battered

Yes I looked at him
In fear

Turned and ran

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Posted in Poetry

The Voice of Poetry

I was just reading another blogger’s stuff and I stumbled over some poetry. It took me back to high school when my notebooks were filled with sad, depressing poetry. Even the margins in my notebooks had a few lines here and there of poetry.

This is where my love for writing began.

Honestly it is funny (is it?) that I totally had forgotten about those notebooks and poems I had written. Remembering them got me going back to college to study Mass Communications. It really did.

If you hang tight I will post one of my most favorite poems I have ever written. It is a surrealist poem. I wrote it because I was in a humanities course in high school (sophomore year?) and we were going over surrealists. My favorite will always be Salvador Dali. His stuff is WEIRD, but I love weird.

I have to find this paper of mine so hold on. 🙂