Dale, I have to find the damn thing. It's in an old notebook. 
. I promise to redouble my efforts.
I may have packed the notebook in storage let me try to recreate it without fixing any of it.
Cause of Death
She was old and feeble,
but that's not why they pushed her down the stairs.
He was young and strong,
but that's not why he hung himself with an extension cord.
She knew they were in love,
but that's not why his infidelity gave her AIDS.
Death fills the void of an empty moment
and that's why boredom kills.
So what do you want to do tonight?
I don't know, what do you want to do?
So, I don't see much to save here. The story behind this poem is I pushed someone down a flight of stairs...wait that isn't it. The story was I was bored out of my mind. I'd gotten out of college, decided that I didn't like the career I was pointed at. I was working in a crap swing shift job and was home watching TV at 4:00 in the morning realizing I was in a rut. I decided to change that. The next TV ad for a career I saw I decided to pursue. So, I could be a Chef, a long-distance truck driver, a para legal...plenty of options.
The ad was for ITT technical institute. So, I moved from my small town to the nearby city, shared an apartment with friends, and started working in a warehouse loading trucks. After work, I would go ITT and study robotics. During this time one of roommates introduced me to poetry, and I started writing it in class because robotics and sautering circuit boards bored me to tears.
I had just finished this "poem" in a psychology class at ITT. I started to tune in to the instructor. He was saying if you don't love what you're doing you need to stop, and do something you love. He meant to motivate us to pour ourselves into our technical careers. I stood up in the middle of class and started walking for the door. I realized that I didn't love this. I was out of my rut, but this was in no way "the answer". I told him I agreed with him and left the school.
Thankfully, I didn't end up rutterless and everything turned out well...
Oh well, enough autobiography...it's a crap poem. Happy 2012!
. I promise to redouble my efforts.I may have packed the notebook in storage let me try to recreate it without fixing any of it.
Cause of Death
She was old and feeble,
but that's not why they pushed her down the stairs.
He was young and strong,
but that's not why he hung himself with an extension cord.
She knew they were in love,
but that's not why his infidelity gave her AIDS.
Death fills the void of an empty moment
and that's why boredom kills.
So what do you want to do tonight?
I don't know, what do you want to do?
So, I don't see much to save here. The story behind this poem is I pushed someone down a flight of stairs...wait that isn't it. The story was I was bored out of my mind. I'd gotten out of college, decided that I didn't like the career I was pointed at. I was working in a crap swing shift job and was home watching TV at 4:00 in the morning realizing I was in a rut. I decided to change that. The next TV ad for a career I saw I decided to pursue. So, I could be a Chef, a long-distance truck driver, a para legal...plenty of options.
The ad was for ITT technical institute. So, I moved from my small town to the nearby city, shared an apartment with friends, and started working in a warehouse loading trucks. After work, I would go ITT and study robotics. During this time one of roommates introduced me to poetry, and I started writing it in class because robotics and sautering circuit boards bored me to tears.
I had just finished this "poem" in a psychology class at ITT. I started to tune in to the instructor. He was saying if you don't love what you're doing you need to stop, and do something you love. He meant to motivate us to pour ourselves into our technical careers. I stood up in the middle of class and started walking for the door. I realized that I didn't love this. I was out of my rut, but this was in no way "the answer". I told him I agreed with him and left the school.
Thankfully, I didn't end up rutterless and everything turned out well...
Oh well, enough autobiography...it's a crap poem. Happy 2012!
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson