As unofficial house-poet of a borderline accredited girl’s junior college, Schwaa U’u had committed many acts that would almost certainly have been considered socially unacceptable outside the confines of the ivory tower. Such was the charismatic seediness of his reputation, that when, following his death by mystery, it was found his entire body of work consisted of little more than a handful of largely inscrutable bits of esoterica, the legend of his eccentric genius was assured.
My hands wouldn’t write what I wanted them to, so I went at both of them with the largest hammer I could find in the house.
As I slipped in my own blood and fell towards the floor, it occurred to me that the pain I felt was more satisfying than any poetry I’d ever scribbled down on the blue-lined tear-streaked pages I called a journal.
Her secret poetry journal was locked in her secret poetry box deep under the floorboards of her secret poetry house.
She died and we searched but all we found was a field with odd patterns of grass.
Before I had you, I was a snowflake— cold, lonely, and lost. Now that I have you, I am in love with the thought that perhaps, just perhaps, we both are
snowflakes holding hands so that when we fall to the snow on the ground, we will fall warmly together in perfect harmony.
I’m sorry your last girlfriend didn’t like it when you spoke to her in metaphors, but she obviously didn’t know what you were worth. Just as a treasure chest is never left in plain sight, one must dig a little deeper to find the treasure within your words.