I'm somewhat of a slam poet. Mind you, this sounds much better in an audible form. Nonetheless, here's what a love poem looks like:
"What If..." by lauren caputi
I hate hypothetical conversations.
"What If..." by lauren caputi
I hate hypothetical conversations.
They allow other people to peer into the fiery depths of
your soul that maybe you don’t enjoy flashing like a girl gone wild,
give rise to criticize your every detail and mental crevice
and start arguments you never even asked for.
Every nook and
cranny of reason and logical thinking becomes public domain as soon as events
turn fictional.
Looking me dead in the eye, my boyfriend asks me this
question.
“Babe, if it happened and I got bit, what would you do?”
Now, my brain shifts into overdrive with possibilities at
this point.
Step carefully, Lauren. It’s a trap.
There is always a hidden agenda within a hypothetical
question.
And if you haven’t already guessed, I’m talking about the
zombie apocalypse.
Now, men, without a doubt you are the ones that are supposed
to be the protectorates.
Strong, buff and chiseled. Protecting weak little flowers
such as myself from the scary, gruesome, bloody undead. And somehow, once the
end of the world rolls around, every man will have a perfect beard. Or so AMC
makes me want to believe.
I’m faced with two options: beheading the man of my dreams
or running away and praying for dear life. But me being…me, my eyes start welling up
before giving it any real thought. I get easily flustered and throw safety and
logic to the wind.
“I wouldn’t be able to kill you.”
And he puts his hand on my cheek, pushes the hair out of my
eyes and says, “Aww, baby that’s so sweet. But I’d kill you.”
And to defend my prior, obviously incorrect answer, I fire
back with something stupid like, “Well, in the heat of the moment, I don’t
actually know what I’d do.”
But the deed is done. I said I wouldn’t kill him and now I
have “poor survival skills.”
And I interject with the question of a probable antidote.
Naturally, if there’s a fictitious zombie invasion, we’ve found the cure. It’s
just so fucking far away that no one in their right mind could cover that much
ground. But it’s definitely there.
So I say,
“Well, what if I don’t want to kill you because I’m holding out for the
antidote.”
And here’s the bitch about hypothetical questions. One
slip-up and you’re wrong. Always.
“What? So you’re telling me you won’t kill me…but you’ll
slaughter possible hundreds of thousands of strangers to get to the antidote?”
Red-faced. Silent staring. Loathing everything about this
conversation.
Suddenly, he says.
“I love you too.”
This is great! Did you change it at all from the last slam?
ReplyDeleteI added one word. So, it's essentially the same thing. Thanks for reading! :3
ReplyDelete