Ode to Tomato Soup

A few days ago, I had this (what I thought was) a wonderful idea: I was going to write a poem to the awesome bowl of tomato soup that I had, because it was amazing. Then I realized that I am no poet. I actually suck at poetry. It's like my ability to write anything other than prose stopped progressing when I was 12. It makes me kind of jealous of people who can just spout it off like they're fluent in it.

Not you, Chris Brown. Shut up. 

Back in high school, I tried to get involved with our school's literary magazine called "The Scroll," but all that ever was published was a drawing I did. It wasn't even that good. I mean, it was my crowning achievement then, since I'd actually completed it instead of letting it sit in my sketchbook as a half-done line drawing. When I finished it, I thought, "Well, surely, I am now an artiste and can probably do something else for the magazine!" I went and grabbed a notebook and started jotting down some poetry, even though I probably would have been more successful writing a short story or something. But that would be playing on my strengths and hahaha, oh, I was such an annoying teenager.

Anyway, I wrote this poem that was basically, "Nobody can understand anyone unless they try and most people don't so you're all assholes."

Hell, I hate your emo poems.  From Shirtoid.

It didn't have any profanity in it, since I attended a Christian school (they tend to frown on things like cursing and having knowledge of the life "outside"), but I tried to be as absolutely scathing as I could be without sprinkling it with "fuck" and "shit" and "dickface." When it was done, I nodded my head in satisfaction and slipped it into the submission box. I heard nothing else about it, and really, I forgot about it until the magazine came out and I was searching furiously through the table of contents for my name. Nothing. My drawing was, but I didn't get credit for that until you got to the page it was on. With righteous teenage angst, I nearly threw the magazine away and I secretly harbored a loathing for the editor, who was a friend of mine (and also an editor on the yearbook staff with me), although that supposed grudge lasted about a day. My hatred of poetry, however, has continued to this day.

Well, I take that back. I like Ezra Pound, Walt Whitman, Ryōkan, and T.S. Eliot. And those are just the ones off the top of my head. They have an artistry that I can't ever hope to match, but at the same time, I'm kind of thankful that the ability to write poetry is not a requirement to be a writer of any kind. Every now and then, I get this lofty idea that I will one day write a beautiful poem that will tug at the heartstrings, but then I'm reminded of my attempts and failures in the world of poetry. If I practiced, maybe? But then, there are also people who just cannot sing, have difficulty understanding math, etc. I guess I'm okay with the fact that I write only prose and dabble somewhat well in the visual arts. Some people don't even have that.

Yes, this is an anti-Chris Brown blog. 

I leave you with my horrendous tomato ode that I made while on ZzQuil:

Oh, tomato soup, with your salty flavor,
You require no cooking skill, for you come from a can.
You will forever stay in my stomach's favor
Since I can heat you up when dinner has no plan.
No one needs add anything to your taste,
Although basil, garlic, or as yet more salt can please
Even the snobbiest of chefs with aprons on their waists.
I choose no more pepper so I do not sneeze.

(And this is where I was like, "Seriously, it's three in the morning and this is horrible. I'm going to bed." Feel free to edit and finish as you wish!)