This is a poem about real things.
Things you can hold in your hand. Things you can feel. Things that will kill you.
This is a Drug Poem. It's not really a suicide poem.
A student once asked me if I ever did drugs when I was a teenager. I said, "No comment." How can you tell someone not to do something you've never tried yourself?
I don't smoke, I don't drink, I don't inhale, shoot up, or sniff anything. I'm so anti-drug, they're probably going to put DON'T DO DRUGS on my head stone. My favorite entry in the dictionary is for the word WACK. The example sentence is: all drugs are bad, but crack is wack.
And ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, the dictionary was right. Crack is wack.
But this is a poem about real things.
It's not about ghosts or zombies or vampires.
It's not about grades or SAGE tests or graduation.
It's not even really about death, it's about things that can kill you. Like heart attacks. Shotguns. Choking. It's about real things.
It's not about sadness, it's about the rain. It's about staring at nothing. Keeping everything bottled up.
It's about smoking cigarettes.
There's something romantic about it. If you can get past the smell, the teeth stains, the phlegm, all the emphysema.
But this isn't a poem about lung disease. It's about real things. It's a poem about what really should be said at the dinner table. It's about everything that's happening right now.
Like how scared I am to be here in the auditorium instead of the little theater or my classroom or my living room. It's just too big. Like we're goldfish in the ocean.
We don't make eye contact anymore and we don't wear watches either. We don't hide behind pen names.
We write poems about addiction. Poems about death and heartbreak and loneliness.
It's not about grades or SAGE tests or graduation.
It's not even really about death, it's about things that can kill you. Like heart attacks. Shotguns. Choking. It's about real things.
It's not about sadness, it's about the rain. It's about staring at nothing. Keeping everything bottled up.
It's about smoking cigarettes.
There's something romantic about it. If you can get past the smell, the teeth stains, the phlegm, all the emphysema.
But this isn't a poem about lung disease. It's about real things. It's a poem about what really should be said at the dinner table. It's about everything that's happening right now.
Like how scared I am to be here in the auditorium instead of the little theater or my classroom or my living room. It's just too big. Like we're goldfish in the ocean.
We don't make eye contact anymore and we don't wear watches either. We don't hide behind pen names.
We write poems about addiction. Poems about death and heartbreak and loneliness.
We write poems in the car. We sit in Wal-mart parking lots writing poems about the moon, but the streetlights keep getting in the way. We wait at railroad crossings wondering when it will be our turn. We know the train will end eventually, but none of us can see it.
This is a poem about real things. It's not about Facebook friends or even real-life friends. It's definitely not about high school. It's about how all the cute girls got fat. And all the fat girls got married. And nobody remembers where anybody sat for lunch.
So here's the truth about tobacco:
It takes years to kill you. I wish I could say the same about everything else.
"It's a poem about what really should be said at the dinner table." I don't know why but both times you read it, that was my favorite line. So simple but it can mean so many things.
ReplyDelete"It's not about sadness, it's about the rain. It's about staring at nothing. Keeping everything bottled up.
ReplyDeleteIt's about smoking cigarettes.
There's something romantic about it. If you can get past the smell, the teeth stains, the phlegm, all the emphysema."
I didn't even realize how much I love the way you write when I was in the class. Maybe you've changed or maybe I have. I don't know.
"It's a poem about what really should be said at the dinner table."
I think we should all write poems about what should really be said at the dinner table. That's a good prompt. It's a "#realtalk" sort of conversation and I love that.
I wish I could've come to the Speak for Yourself thing. I feel like I'm getting old.
Just so you know, Dr. Pepper causes stomach problems. I don't even remember if you drink that. But speaking of things that kill you slowly.
ReplyDeleteThis was painfully good.
Anyway.
This was so good.
ReplyDelete"It's about how all the cute girls got fat. And all the fat girls got married."
ReplyDeleteI don't know which one I'd rather be.
Both Tara. You get fat and then you get married. BAM.
Delete