Just Words, Poetry Zine (ver 2)

I little while ago I put out a Mini Zine, Called "Just Words" it had 6 or 8 poems in it. I write a lot of em, but wanted to publish some to see how much people made fun of me. A couple good friends were quite encouraging, so I am Just about done a 30ish Poem zine. The poems are usually sarcastic poems about nothing, or about me hating the system, or feeling like I wasn't supposed to be born into this world, this country, or this time period. Here's a few, (Unedited, don't mind any typos and capital letters in random places)


Parents

It was my dads fiftieth birthday.
"You can have one drink"
my mom said.
I just turned 15, and how sweet it was.
I walked across the party
"You can have one drink"
my dad said.

I waited until mom started dancing.
"You can only have one more"
she slurred.
I waited until my dads eye were bloodshot red.
"You can only have one more"
he laughed.

I went back and forth for a while,
and the next day I threw up in a swimming pool.

My Mom always said not to learn too much from my dad.
My Dad always said to not trust my mom.
I listened to them both and turned out just fine.


Maple Tree

If I we're a bird
I would make my nest in the tallest tree i could find
or maybe in the most kinked an curvy maple tree i could find.
maybe i could even find one next to a lake or creek,
at the base of a mountain, on the sunny side of course.
I would fall asleep to the sound of water trickling,
and animals wandering about in the moonlight.
I would be the happiest bird in the world.

Not this bird.
from the bus window I see a small nest, in a small tree,
probably planted by some civic worker who probably hates their job.
it sits between a Costco and a wall-mart.
the buildings take turns blocking the sun.
The bird probably never sleeps,
not with the noise of cars, buses, and people.
It must be the saddest bird in the world

St. Lawrence


It's Seven AM and I find myself
staring at the St. Laurence river,
Hoping a decent thought
may wander into my mind.
-Aren't things like this
supposed to inspire creativity?
I ask myself.
What the hell am I supposed to write about?
The clouds?
Still white and puffy.
The river?
Still wet.
The birds?
Jerks woke me up.
I wonder to myself
Am I really this uninspired?
I guess the real question should be
"If I am not inspired,
then why the hell am I up at Seven AM
staring at the St. Laurence river?"