Innocence Gone

So, this is a T.S. Eliot style poem that I just turned in for my 20th Century Lit. class. I borrowed some lyrics from a couple of bands, because they fit the profile model that my teacher was asking for. Thanks to Brand New and As Cities Burn.

Innocence gone,

In a sense, gone

I used to pray knowing my words reached Your ears

Tonight I feel them careen off the ceiling in ricochet back to me

Was your voice just my own?

Echoing off that ceiling

I used to enter the room and people would buzz

Now when I walk in, the whispers aren’t so subtle

The hors’devours and I strike conversation.

I used to know the name of every person I kissed

Now I have this bed, but don’t fall asleep in it.

Why is it that I used to make my parents proud?

Now all I hope is to be more than they have ever been

I finally learned to call you father, instead of Dad.

Fireflies captured, blinking with joy that I had rescued them

My charming pets

Now on hot summer nights their Morse code spells out my unhappiness

Hopefully soon my back will hit the ground

With an unheard thud

No mushroom cloud, No flag draped coffin

At long last the insects will rejoice

For they have a Grand feast at their hands

Let me not go to waste.

Innocence gone.

In a sense,

Gone.

My story begins...

I am a pathological liar. Don’t believe a word I say. I don’t expect you to. You shouldn’t expect you to. Aren’t all stories a lie anyway? You cannot tell me that every autobiographical author to put pen to paper (or finger to keyboard nowadays) has not added something, anything, just to make their story that much sweeter and readable. I promise you that will happen here. This is not an autobiography, and I am not an author. Or writer at that. Take what you will to heart, but I guarantee you that this is all a giant fabrication. It is always is.