OK, here is what I came up with for my poem. I had it structured a different way for class, it looked more like a paragraph sort of, but I knew blogger would have a fit if I tried making it look like it did in word, so I made it more narrow. Again, a form I made up. Whatever. The only comment my classmates gave me was to take out the reference to Stephen King, which I might do if this was ever going to see the light of day. But it's not; I'm not using it for anything but this blog, for laughs, so it's staying.
I want the Sandwich Party Life.
I want the Sandwich Party Life.
Each morning Stephen King style: day can't start till word count achieved.
Mug of hot seasonal drink on my desk, a potted plant.
(The kind you can't kill)
I'll have a view for inspiration, watch the world go by.
Walls full of pictures, scraps of paper worth saving, articles and movie ticket stubs.
Framed pictures of where I've been, of sharks landing in roofs,
hobbit holes, flat top mountains, Freddie Mercury striking a pose.
That Cuban cigar.
But onto the sandwiches. You're all invited.
White bread, wheat bread, pumpernickel, rye. Fillings you fancy.
In this life, construction and creative contents count:
In the making lies the fun.
In this life I can have anything.
Fly to Greece tomorrow and be back for tea. Everyday can be Halloween.
I can make it rain, read to the sound of thunder. I'll have a globe, a wardrobe to Narnia.
Blueberries straight from the farm.
In this life I go to Oxford, Wellington, Virginia, London, and back to you.
Winter won't be so cold in this life.
People who want to sing will sing, no one will hesitate. We will all be equals at last.
And even if it doesn't work out, if nothing happens, we'll know it exists.
It will be hard.
This life only has successful parties.
The house will be a mess, but you will help me clean.
Ice cream will be healthy, so we'll have some.
I want the Sandwich Party Life. With you.
The 'I' is me, but the 'you' is fictional. Or is it? The 'you' could be anyone, the 'you' for all you know, is YOU. By that I mean, anyone who wants to come to my Sandwich Parties and help clean up afterward. Because this is a serious future people, this is happening one day. Just you wait. OH, and just to post it to the world, my dad told me on the phone the other day that if I become Harry Potter rich (I mean WHEN), he has pledged to do all my laundry for me. Sort of like an incentive for writing the next big YA title. You know, get rich, never do laundry again. However, he has already found an easy way out. I'm going to set up a computer that stays on a clothing website of my choice and he will just order me new clothes every day so I never have to wear the same outfit twice, then just toss my dirty clothes. Laundry solved. I wish I could have fit this part of the deal into the poem, but that might have gotten a little too weird. Oh well. So in case he forgets, now EVERYONE knows, dad is my future laundry man. Bwhahaha.
Alright, it's far too late for this. Goodnight party people!
PS, Blogger is probably the worst place ever to post a poem with any sort of form to it. It was not supposed to look like this, but that's the way Blogger wants it to be, so I'm defeated.