Monday, April 18, 2011

Great. Just Great.

Segment 1.

I'm kind of pissed right now. I had a good 60-word paragraph written on this bullshit and I exited out of it. It was full of suspense and life-lessons, too, so feel sorry for yourselves. I guess we'll continue with what I had started. Actually, it doesn't matter. If you're just now joining us, which you are, I'll catch you up to speed. I decided to write about what I see (like the big-ass semi that just drove through campus that was orange, but was made by the company called, wait for it, Yellow, proudly painted on the big orange truck.) Now, when dealing with matters of perception, one is left to wonder: is Taylor's perception better than mine, and if so, is it accurate? The answer is a resounding yes.

Segment 2.

Let's start off with a goal: by the time I finish this entry, I'll have written a Pulitzer Prize winning poem. Begin.

I start by looking out of my window; because the weather is so nice now, we sit at the outside-facing windows instead of the lobby-facing ones. As one could probably infer, I can see a lot more this way. Right now, a black woman with a reddish afro walks the walk of a free woman. Her leggings are black, her skin blacker. Flash. Give me malice. Flash.
Thanks to the wonderful world of nature, I'm able to put past the fears of finals, extinguish the ennui and solace of school, and look out into the sky, thanking God for the beautiful things. The birds are talkative, greeting those who pass. The sky is invisible from the clouds, though they are not dark. A unique ambiance shrouds the campus as the sun peeks its way through a hole in the vast sky. The breeze manages to reach me through the hole in the window. Now a guy on a bike is about to walk up to the window.

Segment 3.

I may go back on what I said
A poem's not the way to go
It's proved to be more difficult
To write a poem in the snow
You may ask, "that really true?
it's hard to write a poem cold?"
And I say "Yes, YES, my dear boy,
cold fingers make for colder toes."
Outside the box there stands a lass
Her hair is blonde her vest is black
She holds a microphone in hand
Two cameramen, she brought along to tell her if her work's too tack.
Oh man with headphones on the path,
You ask for me, you get my wrath.

Segment 4.

If I'm not mistaken, this post has been called the Iliad of posts. Long, strenuous to read, unentertaining. I apologize for my fervor. But, as the poem says, "You ask for me, you get my wrath," and my wrath you have been served, my friends! So, word to ya motha, ask for anotha, give me a topic and you I'll no longer smotha.

Good night, and good luck.

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