Romantic love is a mental illness.
– Fran Liebowitz
Miley Cyrus twerks to express her ecstasy
or more likely to seek attention
She grinds on Robin Thicke to simulate the sexual abandon
that she would like to experience in real life
So would I
Am I less loved because I am too fat?
Yes, yes and yes.
Is Kim Kardashian more loved because she is so shapely?
Yes, yes, and oh, who cares, she is only loved by a raving lunatic.
Cupid, you have been derelict in your duty
Your arrow has not hit the mark
Have you not been keeping up with your lessons
at the shooting range? WTF???
It’s so easy to get laid, but what’s the point?
Where’s the love in that?
When will “Love, Actually” be a film of our own lives?
When will I walk into that Wisconsin dive bar
and fall, happy drunk, for the first British guy there?
Why is that even an option?
In this age,
At this age,
what is the question: Is it love vs. sex?
Or life vs. death?
Is it Viagra that we need?
Or maybe some as-yet-to-be invented pill
that keeps us from forgetting where we put our keys
or where we put our Viagra?
When I dream
I no longer see the vivid love-making of youth
I see an explosion of beauty
or an explosion of fear
that has nothing to do with the physical
that has only to do with the spiritual
Cupid is asleep
and I don’t mind
I only hope the arrow that strikes me now
will strike quickly
and will show me all the beauty
that I missed
while pursuing the shallow end
Today’s NaPoWriMo challenge is to write a poem containing a line that we are afraid to write. I decided to write a New York School poem, which it turns out contains a number of lines that I have been afraid to write. I hope that some of it resonates with you.