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Can I just come out and say right now that I absolutely despise poetry?  Reading it—much less writing it!—is the epitome of monotony.  It feels archaic and senseless.  More often than not I feel like halfway-decent prose could describe anything much better than a poem could.

I suppose the reason I write poetry, then, is to perhaps understand it.  It’s been around longer than I care to think, in countless forms and languages.  Or maybe I’m just a closet masochist.


Sitting in a lone reverie,
dreaming of solace and silent relief,
I tune out the white static inside my mind
and to this reverie I am confined.

But I am haunted by a phantom most vain—
self-indulgent, humanity’s bane,
narcissistic, overbearing,
malignant, plastic, cold, uncaring.

Nature prescribes in its ethereal way:
“Indulge in elixir and forget today
and forget them and forget me
and sleep soundly, pleasantly.”


... to my little corner of the internet. I'm Ben Schroeder, an aspiring writer and music enthusiast. Please leave a comment if you have the time!