Well, I left my new journal at the Drive-in, so you're gonna have to settle for some olde-fchoole poetrye...

I just killed my television. Threw it out the window
with a heave.
Watched it set like the sun
my sun
in the windowsill.
Why did I offer it my time.
It's black screen
inky black
swallows drive
emotion.
Devours humanity and life.
Why did I love it?
Because it gave me the illusion of not taking?
Or was it that I took it's Fate for granted.
I don't want to be the victim,
to say
I was seduced by it's easy mindless-ness.
But what other explanation is there?
When did we stop seeing the sunset,
and start staring into a fucking box?

*polite applause*

Hell yes, children. Now THAT is a bad poem. I was looking back at all of the poetry I wrote at camp and during my junior year...and it's all bad. NONE of it is any good. That one was only good 'cause I swore in it. You know, be a rebel and all that. Maybe abstract writing is not for me. I like it, but poetry always sounds so goddamned lame.