I was playing out in the courtyard
I leapt upward to catch a ball
I tripped on a rock, and lost my left sock
And that’s how I had a big fall.

I was running around the field
As fast as I could try
I picked up the pace, and fell on my face
And that’s how I got a black eye.

I was woken up early morning
It was the sound of my stupid alarm
Aimed for my clock, ‘stead the wall got a knock
And that’s how I broke my arm.

Teachers didn’t believe me at school
They were really sure I was lying
When I broke my tooth, they asked for the truth
And that’s when I started crying.

The TV was on and the volume was low
So the sound he couldn’t quite hear
He reached out and quickly grabbed the remote
Which happened to be very near.

The volume was six, and then after a press
Of a button it went up to seven
He didn’t think that was quite high enough
So he pressed till it went to eleven.

His wife told him to take it slow
For fear he might make it too loud
But to her he paid little to no heed
Why would he? He was very proud.

He noticed that from twelve to thirteen
There was almost no difference discernible
From fourteen to fifteen not much again
He thought: was the remote unworkable?

At twenty-one he started to realize that
He could hear the audio quite well
Yet he noticed the volume went up to fifty
How loud was that? Only one way to tell.

His wife begged him to stop, but he had become
A man by the devil possessed
Soon enough he was up to thirty two
Where their hearing faced quite a big test.

At forty-three it was really uncomfortable
His ears were profusely bleeding
Yet would he cease, oh he would not
Despite his wise wife’s pleading.

She finally grabbed the remote from his hands
And knocked him out of his stupor
She managed to lower the volume till ten
Before he threatened to hit her.

She dropped the remote, he looked at her crazily
She told him to stop and listen
He looked at the TV and then back at his wife
And his eyes slowly started to glisten

He heard the TV, he’d gone too far
In his wife’s eyes he could see real fear
Ten to eleven did nothing for him, but
At forty he lost the ability to hear.

There is something in me
Of that I am very sure
I’ve caught a bug of passion
That probably has no cure

I know what I must undertake
For my task is clearly set
I won’t be able to live with myself
If my goal isn’t fully met

I am sweating and trembling
Not heeding when others speak
Of the familiar scent of victory
I will soon start to reek.

I will run through the corridors
People onlooking with glee
I could swear I’m the best sight
That any of them will ever see

Very soon I will be happy
At least that’s what I posit
When I return from the bathroom
Having made a huge deposit

I’m Superman and I have a problem
I love the bottle to death
I go around saving the world
Whilst having fermented breath

I stop criminals in their tracks
But I still cannot walk straight
Sometimes I pass out in alleyways
As early as half past eight

I fly in loops and swirls
And sometimes forget my pants
Sometimes I wake up covered in honey
To the delight of many ants

One day I jumped to fly but fell,
I thought my life was over
I was surprised that my powers were gone
Maybe it was ‘cause I was sober.

I cannot think of a title
For this upcoming verse
Of its content I have no idea
So pardon me for being terse. 

I haven’t had a single
Original thought all day
I start to write, and then I stop
And my mind wanders away.

It seems these days whatever I do
I can’t seem to love anything enough
For someone who loves himself a lot
This going can definitely be rough

Is there something wrong with me
For I keep drawing a blank
I feel like a man on pirate ship
Setting out to walk the plank 

Poetry is one of my pleasures
Laziness is quite surely my vice
It makes me flock to passive acts,
To do them I don’t need to think twice.

I’ll gaze all day at the sky
Then I’ll watch something on the telly
I’ll lounge around in my bed all day
Till it starts to get a little smelly 

But if I have to actually perform
The task of active thought
I fumble, get tired or really bored
And produce quite close to naught 

Now that I sit and read this verse
I’ll argue it sounds a little poetic
Ranting might have just solved my woes
For, without doubt it feels cathartic.

There are mannequins
Set up near the window.
Lifeless, soulless, plastic creatures,
There to put on a show.

No personality, no thought.
Clothes change everyday.
And with that, character too.
They have nothing to say.

There is a glass wall
So people cannot touch
They are shielded, from us, each other
From any interaction as such.

So fragile, they follow the breeze.
So artificial, so light, so weak.
Recycled when they become useless.
Their future looks bleak.

They were made in our image.
Now is it not ironic
That of these plastic beings,
We are becoming symbolic?