Chris Coen, poet

I hate poetry.  Other than Edgar Allan Poe, whom I love, poets are douchebags.  I’m all hurty inside, blah blah blah, a tree and snow, blah blah blah, more feelings.  Shut the fuck up.  Rousseau used to cry in a boat and write stuff, not necessarily poems, but that’s what I picture most poets doing.  He inspired some of the mood of the French Revolution where they murdered a ton of people off their irrational feelings.  Good job, crybaby.

That said, I had to write a poem in seventh grade English in Frankfort, IN.  It had to be about nature.  Here’s what I wrote.

“The Sun” – by Chris Coen.

People laughing, in the sun.  They’re all dancing, having fun.  The Sun shifts orbit, the people fry.  The Sun explodes, the people die.

I got pulled aside by Mrs. Bradley and berated.  She gave me a low grade and sent me to the guidance counselor.  Obviously, not a poetry fan.  She made me redo it, so I wrote this.

“The Flood” – by Chris Coen

We need more rain, to make the crops grow.  The skies open up, we’ll have food, I know!  The rain never stops, the rivers start to swell.  The flood now drags us all, into a watery hell.

She didn’t like that either, but gave me a B- to avoid a third horrible poem.  I am an artist.