Yes, I understand... this isn't poetry but it definitely is sub par. But that was the point, the following two pieces, I was writing for the purpose of writing poorly. See for yourself.
George could not possibly have known what was about to happen. Because it was unexpected. And in the future.
It didn't happen yet.
So when it does, I'll let you know, 'k?
Meanwhile, another guy named George was waiting. But for something else.
One time I was talking to this kid on the bus, and he said that the guy who got off at the last stop was named George. I don't know why he told me that.
Then the George who was clueless about the future saw the other George who was waiting and said, "Hey George, what are you doing?"
But I'm getting ahead of myself... you see... My name is George.
And I've been waiting to tell you... your name is George too.
See, I told you I'd let you know.
George tried to describe his love for the detective. Not that he was in love with the detective or anything like that: he just was trying to describe his love (his girlfriend) TO the detective, maybe I should have originally said 'to' instead of 'for'. George tried to describe his love to the detective. Yes, that's better. This way the detective would know what to look for when he was trying to find George's love.
"Let's see," began George, "she is pretty... pretty like a rock. And I don't mean an ugly rock either. She's not like this rock that I found one time wedged between the tread in my front passenger side tire, at first I thought it was a nail but luckily it was just an ugly nail-colored rock that didn't flatten my tire. But she is prettier than that rock by far."
"I see," said the detective. "Is there anything else you can tell me about her?" The detective said this because there were many women who were prettier than an ugly nail-colored rock, and so saying that she was prettier than that didn't help him one single bit.
"Yes, there is one other clue that I know about," said George. "She was wearing my University of Washington sweatshirt when she disappeared."
"No I wasn't, you nitwit!" replied Martha. "I was wearing a black t-shirt and sweatpants. You never let me wear your UW sweatshirt."
George glanced down and realized that he was still wearing his University of Washington sweatshirt. It could not possibly have been on Martha. One of the properties of matter is that a sweatshirt cannot occupy the same space at the same time. That's basic physics.
"Right," George said, "That doesn't seem to make sense." He thought for a moment. "Oh! I know, here, try this." He took off his sweatshirt and handed it to Martha who seemed surprised that he was allowing her to wear it, then she put it on. "There!" George exclaimed. "That's what she would have looked like if she had been wearing it when she disappeared. You might want to take a picture of this for reference," he said to the detective. "Say cheese, honey," George said, putting bunny ears on Martha.
The detective snapped a photograph and then stood up to leave. "There is something very suspicious going on here," he said. "I can't put my finger on it yet, but I'll go get this picture developed and we'll go from there. Don't worry George, I will find your love and have her back in no time."
"Thanks, detective," said George.
George and Martha were arm in arm as they watched the detective walk back to his car. "I have a good feeling about him." George sighed.