Hylo's Cheesy Poetry

(Scroll down for newer poems.)
Okay, so this is some of my cheesy poetry. This first one is a poem I wrote about a woman at college. She was in the group that I hung around with, but she was two years older, and you really couldn't call us friends. But she was always very nice to me and I had a killer crush on her.

In Love With A Girl From Afar At School

I barely know you, but I know this emotion
Thereís only one explanation for this kind of devotion.
Thinking and dreaming of you with every thought,
I love you and thatís why my concentration is shot.

I now know first hand the meaning of love-sickness,
I try to ignore it, but itís an unconquerable weakness.
I have reading to do, but can think only of you,
An assignment to write, but no, not tonight.
Iím just going to sit back and dream of a time,
Of when I am yours and you are mine.

It will never be, of this Iím aware,
And with embarassment I realize Iím in total despair,
At the thought that I in this lifetime will miss
The soft, sweet wonderfulness of your kiss.

I want to tell you how I feel in case you donít know,
But Iím afraid of what might happen if I let my feelings show.
Should I tell you, or hint? What would you say?
What if youíre disgusted and say ďYuck, go away!Ē

I think Iíd be happy just being your friend,
But even that seems unattainable, and then again,
The closer we got, the more my love would grow,
And eventually Iíd have to let you know.
Should I just tell you now? I canít decide,
And so Iím always debating inside.

Is it realistic to hope I can be friends with you,
Cause if it isnít, I know the right thing to do.
If thereís nothing to lose, Iíll just say ďI love you KathyĒ,
But if thereís a chance to get to know you, then Iíll keep it inside me.

(c)Hylo Bates, 1994

As a side note, I actually got up the courage and gave her this poem after a few weeks. It was one of those John Hughes-type moments, and I thought it was the most daring thing I'd ever done (at the time). She, of course, didn't feel the same way, so the movie ended there, but she was very sweet to me and didn't treat me any differently even after I'd made a fool of myself. If you're out there, Kathy, thanks for not humiliating a geeky Freshman!

These next two poems aren't like the first one at all, and I waiver back and forth on them. Sometimes I read them and think "yeah...that's right on." Other times I think it's just adolescent, angst-ridden drivel. I figure most readers will consider them more the latter than the former, so I included them on this page.

HATE


I am not a mariner, but this is my rhyme,
and I carry my albotross all of the time.
He rides in my head instead of on my back,
hopeing someday my defenses will crack,
setting him free to fly into the air,
releasing his fury on a world in terror.


So full of hate, so quick to despise,
I try not to look people in their eyes.
From Freudian projection, I live life afraid,
fearing all the enemies my mind has made.
That they unnerve me so makes me hate them all the more,
until only the fire of rage burns at my core.


It hurts me inside, wears on my sould,
burrowing into my heart like a thoracic mole.
Yet I can't deny the hate I feel,
for I examine it often, and the causes are real.
All I have to do is look around,
and I see that the impetus for my scorn is sound.


People can't see it, and I can't make them,
though I have the desire to grab and shake them.
I can do nothing, and caring is a crutch.
I'd rather be indifferent than hurting this much.
Or an ignorant moron, blissfully unaware
of the type of world that exists out there.


Compassion and decency are things of the past,
and nice guys usually do finish last.
In the footrace of life, they're forced to crawl,
that is, if they're allowed to compete at all.
And all I have to do is stop and spectate,
and I'm filled with this incredible, consuming hate.


(c)Hylo Bates, 1995

I want a refund!

Working every day just to "make ends meet",
That's not a life!
Working all the time just so you can eat enough to work the next day...
That's barely a step above slavery.
I'll die before I do that.
"These are the words of an irrational mind."
And you're more rational than I?
Well, we could argue that forever.
But I've felt this way for many years now,
So don't think these are transient, extreme thoughts
Brought on by drastic times.

"You're a quiter." Fine.
"You're a coward." Whatever.
I wasn't asked before I was brought into this world,
Kicking and screaming to be put back from whence I'd come.
I don't owe anyone anything.
Life was a "gift" I didn't ask for.
I'll ride it out for as long as it's productive,
And then I'll shut it off.
I didn't ask for any of this...
This sick joke: Life.
I was given no drive, no motivation,
Just a lot of useless talents and hobbies that get me nowhere.
"You're lazy." Yeah, well...you say potatoe...

I played by the damn rules.
I walked the straight and narrow,
Followed the yellow, brick road of good grades and test scores
From kindergarten through highschool.
I went to the promised land of college
And looked over the mountain top,
Only to see that none of those rules applied on the other side.
None of the "virtues" I had were worth a damn,
And many of them were hinderances.
Sensitivity, empathy, decency, and self-control...
These sentiments were all greeted like pacifism in Sparta.

You're goddamn right I'm angry!
I'm sick of the lies:
"You can do anything you put your mind to."
And I'm sick of the rhetoric:
"If life gives you lemons, then make lemonade."
Yeah, well, too much lemon juice will burn through your stomach,
And sear a hole right through your soul.
And what about the point when you have your pitcher of lemonade,
And the world says, "oh, you can't live on lemonade alone.
You also need orange juice...
And we're fresh out of oranges."

(c)Hylo Bates, 1995
Added 1, Sept. 2004: Here's another that's cheesy angst for some and meaningful for others.
It could have been written by Paul in my short story, You Know You Can Tell Me Anything.

Broken Promises

There it is again, the nagging voice.
I don't so much hear it as feel it.
As always it comes at a time when I should enjoy
A respite from the tribulations of the day.
But, as I lay awake in my disheveled bed,
It comes taunting, rattling about in my head
Like a wing-nut in a tin can.
"So, you think you're going to sleep," it sneers,
As I roll over and adjust the sheet.
"We have some things to discuss," it jeers,
And I know I'll be awake for a while again.

For the next hour and a half of my restless night,
The ugly truth is dangled in front of my face.
I don't resist or struggle, as some people might,
Because I know the arguments too well.
I hear them nearly every time I try to sleep.
"You didn't keep your promise," he accuses.
Exhausted and beaten, I feel the need to weep,
But those anti-depressants have rendered my
Tear ducts as barren as the moon.
I can't cry even when I want to, which is half my problem.
I think, if I could cry, I'd be asleep quite soon.

"You said we'd never get to this point,
You'd save us before it came to this."
The voice is accusing, the same routine,
But it's not a claim I can ignore or dismiss.
It's true that while I was still in my prime,
I promised I'd get out while there was still time.
I swore I'd never live the 9 to 5 life,
Working every day at I job I hate to make ends meet.
But my childhood vanished when I wasn't looking,
And now I'm grown up, just one of the sheep,
Struggling to explain my misery to my wife.


(c) Hylo Bates, 2000
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