Stuff Summer, Stick With Savior

These are the 2 pieces of poetry that I plan to submit for my Creative Writing assignment.

I can’t actually stuff the Stuff Summer one, because I need to have 2. I’m hoping that 14 lines of a dodgy Shakespearean sonnet (that is, a sonnet with the rhyming scheme of abab cdcd efef gg, as opposed to a Petrarchan sonnet, which has the rhyming scheme of ababcdcd cdecde…but you don’t really care, and neither do I) and a strange free-verse poem will be enough.

So here is the free-verse:

Stuff Summer

Summers are not family friendly.

Family friendly is when children

Can run around, laugh, eat dirt,

Whatever, without having to slip, slop, slap,

Wear sunglasses,

Wide-brimmed hats, Shirts,

Zinc, a bloody suit of armour.

Summers are not family friendly.

Because you expect clean and comfortable days,

But instead you get sleazy ones that

Make you uncomfortable in your own skin.

They come up to you, gives you a drink,

And the drink tastes kinky, and you want to

Kill the come-on.

Or, go with it, and then tell your friends about

The half-forgotten stuff that happened

after.

Summers are not family friendly.

Go to the beach – no seriously, go;

You’ll never want to go back again.

Disgusting, engorged bodies, dripping in grease.

(You’ll never eat at KFC again, either).

And you’ll have to slip,

slop,

slap,

Sleaze. And I’m not talking about the heat

I’m talking about those ON heat.

Everywhere is out of bounds, even the underfoot burns.

And God Forbid if you leave garbage behind;

Because the beach – and summer – isn’t dirty enough already.

And here is the sonnet:

Savior

The day I met you I’d erred and made you cry,

You forgave me, yes, but still I pulse in debt.

Overdrew not only tears, but I

Will not look back and feel a ray of regret.

Your inner light broke down my cellar heart

Speared through me, and pulled me into the depth,

I felt the quiet inside of me depart

And in this glow, gratefully, I wept.

I saw the world through glasses tinted rose,

But then the thought drove daggers into me:

Despite the girly whims and pretty bows,

The infatuation ends at this degree.

The reality that I’d almost forgot;

I’m not in love with you, I swear I’m not.

I hope you enjoyed reading it, because if you don’t, chances are my profession won’t, either.

Alex.

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