A friend's post the other day inspired me to go dig through my old literature textbooks and as I was flipping through the poems of one of my favourite poets, Philip Larkin, I chanced upon my own creation as well. Apparently, I was a budding poet even in those days. hurhurhur.
This is Philip Larkin's actual poem, entitled Days:
What are days for?
Days are where we live.
They come, they wake us
Time and time over.
They are to be happy in:
Where can we live but days?
Ah, solving that question
Brings the priest and the doctor
In their long coats
Running over the fields.
And this is my original composition, written during lit class. I think I was quite bored. My Larkin-inspired version of Days:
Days are such a bore
I cannot stand it anymore
The monotonous minutes
make living such a chore.
Eh, Sandy, not bad right? If I may say so myself. Hurhurhur. I think if got time I shall go and expand on it. It is a work-in-progress.
