And so my Father came over, and put his hand on my head.
Don't worry about things like that. I just looked underneath your bed, and there isn't any poet there. And if he does appear, just call for me, and I'll chase him off. I love you more than anything, and I will always be here, to protect you.
I looked at my Father, and told him
I love you too, Daddy.
He tucked me in, turned on my night-light, and closed the door.
And I knew I had to be brave.
So I pulled the sheets over my head, and went to sleep.
Until I heard a voice, coming from underneath my bed...
Daddy went to sleep?
is that right?
Daddy won't hear you peep?
While you critique,
My Open-Mic Poetry Night?
I was frozen in my bed, underneath my sheets.
Daddy said Poets aren't real, they just exist in your mind, and they go away if you ignore them
A long, slim, arm rose up from the bottom of my bed, and offered me a quill. The sleeve ended in ruffles, like something a pirate or faggot would wear.
Child, write a single rhyme. Make it simple, and write it in time. And once you do it, if Poets are not real, I will make it my prerogative, to disappear.
So I took the quill, and I wrote,
And as I scribbled, I also Spoke,
Poetry is Dead
Poetry can't be written,
Poetry can only be Said,
Poetry is softer than a newborn a kitten,
There is no Poet underneath my Bed.
And he won't speak the Truth,
Because he is only in my Head!
And so the poet did disappear.
And so my Father came over, and put his hand on my head.
>Don't worry about things like that. I just looked underneath your bed, and there isn't any poet there. And if he does appear, just call for me, and I'll chase him off. I love you more than anything, and I will always be here, to protect you.
I looked at my Father, and told him
>I love you too, Daddy.
He tucked me in, turned on my night-light, and closed the door.
And I knew I had to be brave.
So I pulled the sheets over my head, and went to sleep.
Until I heard a voice, coming from underneath my bed...
>Daddy went to sleep?
is that right?
Daddy won't hear you peep?
While you critique,
My Open-Mic Poetry Night?
I was frozen in my bed, underneath my sheets.
>Daddy said Poets aren't real, they just exist in your mind, and they go away if you ignore them
A long, slim, arm rose up from the bottom of my bed, and offered me a quill. The sleeve ended in ruffles, like something a pirate or faggot would wear.
>Child, write a single rhyme. Make it simple, and write it in time. And once you do it, if Poets are not real, I will make it my prerogative, to disappear.
So I took the quill, and I wrote,
And as I scribbled, I also Spoke,
>Poetry is Dead
Poetry can't be written,
Poetry can only be Said,
Poetry is softer than a newborn a kitten,
There is no Poet underneath my Bed.
And he won't speak the Truth,
Because he is only in my Head!
And so the poet did disappear.
(post is archived)