This blog is becoming like a magazine with regular features:  There are the Nightmarriage posts, the doodles I draft during meetings at work (Arts & [Hover]crafts), musical posts (a feature I would like to call Muzack Morris), posts about writing, and posts about religious/spiritual things.  I want to create a regularly appearing feature for my bad high school poetry.

At the moment, I have no clue what to call it.  Suggestions? LEAVE A COMMENT!

Why unleash such a stench upon the world?  Why not?  If you can’t laugh at yourself, you’ll never make it.


While it’s important to learn from your mistakes, it’s even more important that you recognize them as mistakes in the first place.  If you continue to celebrate poetry you wrote in 8th grade when you are 50, either you were a prodigious youngster or you’re a delusional oldster.  Take your pick.  Most artists divorce themselves from their work at some point, ridiculing their once great creations and saying things like, “I’m not that person anymore” or “That is so 1993.”

On that note, the poem below is, like, so 1993.

It’s called “Mr. Feelings,” and it is decidedly dreadful.  Is it an allegory?  Is it the product of listening to too much “grunge?”  (Yes!)  Is it the product of being dropped on my head by my mother when I was a child and the driveway was particularly slick one frigid winter day?  Who knows?  I only know one thing:  It sucks.

Note the inexplicable placement of commas and the total lack of periods.  It tells the  story of some Cupid-like character named “Mr. Feelings” (Thank you, Captain Obvious!) who delivers romantic feelings to people and cruelly does not deliver them to others.  I mean, on a conceptual level it’s practically a Christopher Nolan film waiting to happen.  In fact, I could probably sue him for that whole Inception racket (which I still love).  Then again, if I sued him that would mean showing this pestilent poem to more people.  I think showing it to all of you is embarrassment enough, don’t you?


I ran into a man,

his name was Feelings,

he had no heart,

but his cause was real,

Mr. Feelings changed,

then quickly he grew,

ran through my head,

now I care for you,

Mr. Feelings left,

but the feelings stayed,

now I am nothing,

but your helpless slave,

I wear tarnished chains,

now I’m confused,

and now I know,

he never came to you.

I love the comma placements.  They make no sense whatsoever.  On top of that, why would anyone let some creepy abstraction of a man run through his brain and plant feelings there?  Frankly, if I caught Mr. Feelings strolling the corridors of my mind today, I would simply call the psychic police and tell them to haul this huckster to jail (where all of my other personalities are awaiting trial for their creative crimes).

If you have a bad high school poem or two, shoot it my way.  I would love to read it.  Even more, I would love to feature it on here along with some of my own. Shoot me an email at or tweet me @Saint_Upid.