Marisa (poem)

Your daughter’s not a poem sir.

She’s not a Haiku or a Limerick.

She’s actually kind of sick.

Looks like a drunk whore on Instagram. 

But I guess that’s normal.

Something to be really proud of.

Your daughter’s not a poem.

She’s not a Ballad or Acrostic.

She’s more borderline, more autistic.

Can’t even comprehend grammar or empathy. 

Mayhap she’s a Burlesque Blank Verse

Suffering from neuropathy.

Your daughter’s not a poem.

She’s not graceful or careful.

She’s not a bridge of sighs.

There’s no ravens on her bust of Pallas,

There’s no flies buzzing on her lies.

And despite her Dramatic Monologue…

…your daughter is no poem.

She’s no Epigram, no Epithalamium,

No Free Verse.

She merely cries and can curse 

Like an inebriated soldier.

She will not be an Idyll when she gets older.

She’s not an Italian Sonnet,

Got no bees in her bonnet,

No gumption in her tea.

She just expects things to be handed to her,

As you’ve mainly done; for free.

It’s possible she’s an Irregular Pseudo-Pindaric Ode.

And is no doubt a Narrative Lay.

(Of course that is code).

Despite being temporal

She’s not Pastoral, or a romantic Rondeau.

Fondue has more substance.

No sir, 

Your daughter is no poem.

She’s not a Senryu.

She’s vain but not a Villanelle.

When you’re in town she always turns up the hysterics 

And I suppose she repeatedly broke her phone 

While she was buried way down in the barracks.

I know I might sound mean-ish.

It might make you squeamish.

In front of your transparent house

I stand with a stone.

Your daughter is a lot of things, sir.

   But she’s certainly not a poem.