the Pen, the Paper, always there,
unflashy and unflagging tools,
were with you on the fateful date
when you first set your sights on her,
and tried a dozen times to write
pretentious rhymes about the light
you saw reflected in her eyes.
The Pen's nib rolls; the Paper sighs
to see you off like this again.
Have they not always been your friends?
They've seen what happens: you get hurt
and channel that into your verse,
constructing pretty hate machines
of adolescent rhyming schemes.
Toying with smoking once again,
your lips will close around your pen,
an oral side-hug: it wants more,
but you have both been here before.
It knows, too soon, you'll put it down
to chase another Muse around,
so, penfully, it bears its pain:
this happened once, and will again.
Only Paper knows the truth:
this process only is the Muse.
|Andrew Marvell is sick of girls like you not putting out for a Nice Guy like him|
I could've just as easily put this on Wrestling Emily, but I find the word 'friendzone' as annoying as 'banter' so I figured I'd put it on here. I've tried to write it in (my approximation of) a swaggering, Metaphysical Poets style, because I can see those guys being exactly the kind of pricks who'd complain about being 'friendzoned'. 'Had we but world enough and time...'? Yeah, you'd still be a creepy perv, mate.