Doth Thou Think I Protest Too Much: Delving Deeply into Poetry

Shirley Anne’s introduction of Dr. John Cooper Clarke on a previous rant inspired me to dabble with a little bit of poetry as well. Based on a few tweets made on Twitter earlier today, the following is my first literary attempt at a serious poem. Please allow me to hang my oft-broken heart on my sleeve:

    Doth thou think I protest too much,
    About that horrid, empty feeling of anxiety, overwhelming my inner propriety,
    As the final wax-coated, mint flavored, dental-floss strand pulls out entirely,
    From its core, leaving the shiny, white case empty forevermore?

    But then in an instant, a rush of jubilant gratification overcomes this seething gloom,
    A comforting realization shines through; another white pack’s in the other room,
    Waiting in a kitchen cabinet, bought at the market before the last full moon;
    It might have even been left there during the past month of June.

    Doth thou think I protest too much?
    Methinks I need to shake the cobwebs from my brain.
    Hop on a train,
    Maybe drive up to Maine.

    Perhaps I’ll fly to Paris, pronounced in French as “Paree,”
    I’ll even drop off the key, Lee.
    Take the next flight out,
    See you later; I’m gone, good night.

    Doth thou think I protest too much?
    Why am I so bitter?
    Sorry, it’s mostly from experience, dating way back hither, as a young tyke,
    Continuing seemingly regularly, overnight.

    I need a drink of something sweet to quell this sour taste in my mouth,
    From the needless heartbreak of losing out;
    Always on the wrong end of the stick,
    As if resentment was aimed consistently at me.

    Doth thou think I protest too much?
    Like someone whose panties are all in a bunch;
    As if complaining would solve the dilemma,
    Of having too much hatred sealed up inside.

    Doth thou think I protest too much?
    When no one responds whilst I’m reaching out,
    To those who claim to be my friends,
    But yet I never hear from them again.

    Doth thou think I protest too much,
    When loneliness is the only friend I trust?
    I could use a listening ear, a pat on the head, or a little bit of cheer,
    But get empty stares, uncomfortable chairs, and feelings that no one cares but me.

About Mike Slickster

As an early retiree with an honorary doctorate degree from the proverbial "School of Hard Knocks," this upcoming author with a lot of free time on his hands utilizes his expansive repertoire for humorous yet tragic, wildly creative writing that contains years of imaginative fantasy, pure nonsense, classic slapstick, extreme happiness and searing heartbreak; gathered by a wealth of personal experiences throughout his thrilling—sometimes mundane or unusually horrid—free-spirited, rock-'n'-roller-coaster ride around our beloved Planet Earth. Mike Slickster's illustrious quest continues, living now in Act Three of his present incarnation, quite a bit on the cutting edge of profundity and philosophical merriment as seen through his colorful characters, most notably evident in the amusing Thirty Days Across the Big Pond series, all of which can be found at
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4 Responses to Doth Thou Think I Protest Too Much: Delving Deeply into Poetry

  1. Shirley Ann says:

    A cup of tea
    Doth work for me
    And helps prevent that self pity
    Not sweet enough ?
    I add some sugar
    To stop me being a moaning bug**r

  2. I drink tea daily and sweeten it with honey,
    Yet I still complain. It’s really not that funny.
    But a few shots of gin doth worketh better than tea, you see,
    To stop my incessant “Woe is me.”

    So tonight I’ll drink a toast to you, Shirley Ann.
    You certainly know how to make one feel quite ashamed
    Of his constant raving and misbehaving,
    Looking for someone or something to blame.

    Cheers to you, and thanks for sharing your reasoning and rhyme.
    And as always, for being so very kind;
    Having unfailingly a positive outlook on things,
    I wish you could bottle it up for me to drink instead of gin.

  3. Shirley Ann says:

    Il raise a glass to you old mate
    And though at sympathy I’m not great
    Don’t fret if one wants a moan
    And take no notice if I groan
    I hope you’re feeling “A” OK
    And send my best wishes on today
    Keep the lovely bird pics comin
    Carry on with drums and humming
    But most of all stay nice and sweet
    Catch up soon when next you tweet

  4. Thanks for your advice and tidings of goodwill,
    My mind has been spinning lately like a windmill.
    Thoughts have been going round and round,
    With feelings of rejection quite abound.

    Fortunately, from words penned by a friend like you,
    Who has a philosophy that’s incredibly astute,
    My attitude can take a turn for the better,
    After reading and absorbing each and every letter.

    So when I start to rant and rave,
    Please remind me to behave.
    For life can sometimes be amiss.
    One can’t live everyday in total bliss.

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