Grand Theft Poetry

The Death of Silence

They say that
loud noise is famous to silence.
But I say she is indifferent to the noise.

The red light is blinking
on my answering machine,
and I am as happy as a lark.


I sit in my chair,
with a pen, or a book, or nothing at all,
and listen to her speak for a while.

But what does this world do,
when they ought to be at home?
They scream and shout.

And maybe they'll admit it,
once they've killed her.
But it's no secret.

And they'll scream through her funeral.

2nd Draft Poetry

The Past is Past.
But I feel just the same
Now.

The despondency.
The discontent.
It should be gone
Now.

The problem is solved.
But I feel just the same
Now.

I think about it
Like its happening
Now.

Very Bad Poetry

The past is past,
But is it the past or the future?

If the past is alive than is it the future,
So the future is alive too.

Future.
Dead.
Past.
Alive.
Past.
Dead.
Future.
Alive.

In the past we were dead,
In the future we were dead.

Train Station (LATE!!!!!!!)

M-Hello sir, do you have the time?

W-Excuse me?

M-Oh, um... I meant..uh..ma'am.

W-You've got some nerve going up to a stranger and....

M-Really, I'm sorry, I just need the time, I'm in a little bit of a rush?

W-It's six O'clock.

M-You didn't even look at your watch, or a clock...

W-I guessed.

M-I coulda' done that. Thanks?

W-Than what did you need me for?

M-I don't know (sigh)... Bye.

Four Alarm Fire

At the Exhibit. Hundreds of paintings, Hundreds of people, loud noises.


As I walked I saw one sitting alone, no one near. No one walking seemed to notice it, or rather cared to look at it after the first glance. I went to see it. I was a simple, strange painting.

This particular picture reached out and grabbed me, reeling me to it. I slowly came nearer, eyes fixed on it. I stood about 8 feet away from it--staring. It entranced me with a painful, longing nostalgia. Tears swelled in my eyes.

I drifted into reminiscence. It brought me back to when tommorow was uncertain everytime I suited up. To a time where, my livelihood could also have been my death. To a time where I did good, I saved. To the glory days.

Tears swelled in my eyes. I longed, I cried.

And then, regaining composure, I walked away. Forgetting the painting, just like every bypasser before me.

Trying to forget the past

Introduction

My name is Andy Warhol. I was born in Pennsylvania, growing up like any other kid. When I was a kid I learned to love to read. I love books. I found I had an interest in the fine arts as well. Between the two I had no time for anything else. I spent my childhood drawing and reading. Drawing and reading. Reading. Drawing. Reading.

I have friends, but I don't need them. Being alone is the best.

I went off to college and quit. I got a job, and quit. I got another job, and quit.

And here I am now.