53. Poetry Month: Not Dead Yet

As some writers may know, this month is the bane of many of my friends, and a nuisance to me. April, also known as National Poetry Writing Month, or hell, is the month where some masochists undertake the task of writing 30 poems in April. It’s a contest or something, but I happen to be a student in a class that is forced to do it as an assignment. I couldn’t care less about poetry, but in honor of this horrible month, I’ll be reviewing only poetry.

Only poetry.

I don’t think I’m surviving April.

We’re returning to my favorite type of poetry for April’s debut: Tumblr poetry.

53.1

“but darling” is a poem by C.T., and I don’t think it’s a title, but it’s the only thing centered to the left into the poem. It has an odd form with no function, and I don’t get it. I also don’t get why we can’t let these stupid pseudonyms die. There’s probably dozens of C.T.’s out there how the hell am I going to know which is which? None of them even have unique voices.

“In the end you’ve got to be your own hero…everyone’s too busy trying to save themselves.”

Yeah, damn those firefighters, using tax payer dollars to save themselves from fires. We need reform. And damn those therapists, taking money from patients just to talk about how their Mercedes is in the shop. Oh and especially fuck those people trapped in relationships, feeling guilty about leaving because they’re partner is (depressed/suicidal/abusive/etc.), they’re obviously just in it for the sex. Go fuck yourself, idiot, some people, believe it or not are actually selfless. I’m not, but some people are.

53.3

The next poem, also untitled, is about love. Because love poems aren’t completely overdone, right? It’s by someone called k.p.k., and it’s just flat out horrible. Just bad. It’s not poetic, its subject matter isn’t interesting or fresh, and it does nothing to subvert the fact that it’s a cliché.

“it was to think that I would not know you by the feeling of your heartbeat against my back.”

This reeks of wanderlusted hipster that wants to be some edgy artist, probably in Paris. And if your partner has a heartbeat that you can feel through their chest and your back, then they might want to visit a cardiologist.

53.2

The final poem is also by a kpk, but this one doesn’t have periods separating the letters, so I’m assuming they’re different people. This poem also has no title, noticing a trend?

Also a love poem. Hate it. It’s all centered to the right for no good reason. Form is fine if you have a fucking reason for using it.

The “poet” claims they have nothing to offer, they can’t sing to their love, paint them pictures, or play an instrument for them. Someone should tell the “poet” that they can’t write for their love either. And so they say that they’ll brush the knots from their hair, and be good to them. Wow, being good to your beloved. What a novel concept. Pull your head out of your ass, idiot.

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