Poetry as Therapy pt. I
I’m working on a blog post for Scriptwriting about poetry as a form of therapy, which will go up this weekend, but for right now I thought I’d post an example of that. I hate that Dr. King and IWU students are reading this on their RSS feeds, because of the content of the following poem. (Consider this your warning.) But, remember that first and foremost this is my blog, not my IWU-affiliated Scriptwriting blog. If it offends–sorry. Maybe if you get offended easily, you should stop reading: HERE.
—
Questions
god, is this how it works—
you’ll speak to me only if
I’m a youth-pastor-to-be,
with a microphone and
microscopic wit, whose words
are amplified even larger
than yours?
Do I have to have
a faux hawk and f—ing
skinny jeans and a
Wesleyan theology
to carol your name
like angels?
Do you even listen
to skanks who sell their
self-esteem for sex
or addicts who always,
always, always, always
give in?
Doesn’t it seem like you’re
spending too much time
with those who are good
at looking good
but not with those who
aren’t?
Aren’t you impressed
by how well I’m
recovering,
though I’m not
(even kind of, even sort of,
really) repenting?
Aren’t you tired
of being deaf
and mute?
Aren’t you sick
of being so
aloof?
January 29, 2011