Half-Poet

I know why you drink and write,
you poets of depressed night.
You feel empowered, which I'm sure
will not linger in the morn.
The word will flow in ceaseless praise,
to your fingers on the page,
and everyone will doubt no more
the reverence that you implore.

I know why you drink - to die,
because your poems of death are nigh,
Emily's gone, and Sylvia too,
so what now will we do with you?
We too are in the human race,
given you your time and space,
all the classes you could take
to keep at bay your real-life wake.

I know why you drink and time
your syllables to match with mine,
and though the company you keep -
Butler, Yeats, Cummings E.E.
will hardly make you one of these,
prestigious though it is indeed.
If you must practice what you preach,
then hope to God it's within reach
of Man's affluent companies
in this hopeless economy.

Hello, please edit. Thank you.

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Myspace

After many frustrating arguments with my father over winter break, I decided to allow him to purify my computer and conceded to working with my personal account, aptly titled 'Jennifer', instead of the administrator's account. Generally, it's a good idea, except that it sort-of reminds me of training wheels.
Anyway, the real point is that I have seldom used my Jennifer account since my freshman year of college for any substantial work, so all my bookmarks remained, no matter how outdated (Tiffany's? Seriously?). Another one of these unexpected twists was my Myspace page. It was outdated, and in a bad way. At the very least, it was a picture of me and a former boyfriend, and I couldn't remember my password for the past, I don't know, 3 years? So I couldn't change anything.

Gah.

It is way more surreal to find a photo than a note. Your brain registers a thousand words at a glance, allegedly.
Thanks to my account switch, I've been able to successfully eliminate the photo.

Thanks, Dad. I guess parents really do know what's up, sometimes.

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