I sit here at my computer and research this group’s intent. I research the realism, as my knowledge in this realm was misspent.
I know little of realism, outside of angry, white t-shirted men, with groans of pain and fist shaking at empty promises made by adults in their youth.
“Stella! Stella!”, I hear Brando cry. I see Camus’ Stranger aimlessly wandering through life.
“400 Blows”, an anarchistic youth, unhappy endings for most, drab existence, artful poignance.
Is this realism or drama, I wonder to myself. Was “kids” realism? or extremed for box-office votes?
The grittier the drama, the more real it would seem. Yet starry-eyed wonder, subverts in the corner, of the realists’ dream.
This poem does suck, I’m sorry for it, true. Yet proud ’cause I tried, even though it is poo.