Osler's Razor

The trees cry all night
Because they know my plight
Will he call again?
Or a message, will he send?
No.
No.
No.
Cry for me, trees. Cry.
 

The night creeps in to my bed
But I am already there
Caw! Caw!
It is the crow.

BBT
 

The solitude surrounds me
Choking me
Taking away the air
If I have no friends
Except for the horrible ones that left me,
Left me,
How do I have air?

The trees sneeze out air,
But it's not enough
To keep me from dying
Those monsters
They cut down the tree
I planted
It was a pretty good tree, too.

Why do I have to put up with this?
Why must my conscience despise me so?

Things done already should be already done!

YAARRGHGH!!! I scream. But then the darkness comes into my soul again, and the crushed spirit reigns.

And if I think about the acts undone,
My mind transforms
Into a hellish pit
Of evil.
 

Goes nowhere? Check.
Unbelievably depressing? Check.
Full of awkward phrasing issues? Check.

I've got this one down.
 

My Pontiac hates me
It has sticky vinyl seats
Which melt in Texas sun
Like tears on my pants
Only sticky.
 

Popularity breeds solidarity and solitude becomes a rarity.
People all around. No friends, just a crowd.
Lonely.
Empty.
Filled.
 

I can't think of an awkward highschool poem right now. I do have an awkward childhood story, though. When I was little, I was convinced I was Baby Jessica, who fell down the well. I was a baby, I was named Jessica, so it all made sense. I would tell perfect strangers about how my mom let me fall down a well, and how when they pulled me out, everyone cried. Will that do?
 

Jessica, bringing the creepy. I'm not sure why, but that is really disturbing.
 

No poem, but I do have a question. Who was Leonard T. Stovepipe and why were you writing a maudlin poem at his desk?
 

Nonsense, I SAW you write this in the car after I made you listen to the Best of Norman Greenbaum this summer as we were driving from Alpine back to El Paso.
 

Oh, that was a terrible cd....
 

I never wrote bad poetry. I wrote bad prose.
 

Raise a glass to the hollow sleep
Of temple gardens steeped in woe
And ford the river, wide and deep
By single stars at night, distant and cold

Take all these things away,
I will play with them no more.

Gaze away at the morning star
All nights end when the dawn begins
The stairs to the throne are dark
With a chorus of your sins

Take all these lies away,
I will play with them no more.

A steel-clad hand that grasps the crown
Stony soil that breaks the blow
The dry land of river's flowing
The twilight and the stars are glowing

Take all these men away,
I will play with them no more.

Then stay your blade, o king of worms
And we will plague this heart no more
By the waters of stillness and light
Was crowned a god of air and night

Sing ye blades, your siren song,
The clash of arms did drown us all
By blood the godhead bought
Sacrifice of all who fought

Raise your glass to the hollow sleep
The sleep of death and widow's embrace

Raise your glass to the strident deep
Of graves and soil untilled

Raise your glass till those graves are filled
Raise your glass till those graves are filled

(I tried my hardest to come up with the worst, most maudlin poetry I could. I should probably stick to bad prose.)
 

I remember Leonard T. Stovepipe...
He favored marshmallows....