The other day, I was looking through old junk in my room. It still looks like a bad episode of Hoarders in there. But at least I tried. I also found some really old journals. I haven’t kept a diary since high school. So naturally I began to read through some of them. There’s a lot of dumb shit in there, as I’m sure you can imagine. Was I really as stupid as those pages would indicate? Apparently so.
I also used to write poems. I thought of myself as somewhat of a poet. But I guess lost that at some point along the way. What a tragedy to the world. I could have been as epic as Keats or Wordsworth or Shelley or Browning. Or Shakespeare or Byron or Burns or Tennyson. And yes, I’m totally just naming poets whose names I remember from my English Literature 12 class. And you know what, some of them wrote random odes to things too. Robert Burns wrote “To a Louse“. I kind of think my odes to my umbrella and my phone are more meaningful that that.
But the poems that caught my eye in this old journal were the simple ones. I had a few pages where I had come up with my own versions of the “Roses are red” poem. Because why wouldn’t I? I think at some point everyone has come up with their own versions of this poem, whether they be good or bad. Side note, did no one ever realize that violets are actually violet, and not in fact blue? I mean it’s right there in the name of the flower. I’ve always had a problem with that. But anyway, I won’t share all of the versions that I came up with. They weren’t all that great. But I will share with you the one that I’ve now deemed as my favourite:
Roses are red.
Water is clear.
You’re still ugly.
I need some more beer.
Yeah. I should really get a job writing for Hallmark.