Like a Metaphor With a Name Tag

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Like a Metaphor With a Name Tag

I tried to explain similes,

which went over like trying to herd cats on roller skates,

on ice,

during a fire drill.

A simile is like a comparison wearing a name tag,

like a metaphor that insists on shaking hands

and saying, “Hi, I’m like.”

It works like duct tape for language—holding two unlike things together

like a raccoon hugging a shiny object it does not understand.

My teacher said, “Use similes sparingly,”

which landed like telling a kid to eat just one potato chip, or

like a librarian whispering at a monster truck rally.

Similes pile up like socks in a dryer, multiplying like rabbits on espresso,

escaping control like a balloon released by a distracted clown.

A good simile pops like bubble wrap inside the brain,

sparks like flint on steel,

sticks like gum under a desk labeled “Do Not Touch.”

A bad simile dies like a tax form read as a bedtime story

to a caffeine-addicted ferret.

Similes teach like a tour guide with a laser pointer and opinions,

pointing at meaning like “THIS is what I mean,”

waving arms like an inflatable car-lot man having an existential crisis.

They’re slippery like bananas on linoleum, flashy like sequins at a funeral,

useful like a map drawn in crayon—

technically flawed, emotionally sincere.

So here’s your lesson, delivered like pizza:

hot, uneven, and worth the regret.

A simile is like a bridge made of words and confidence,

carrying conversational sense like groceries

in a bag that might rip—but usually gets you home.

Similes explained to the class, over at DVerse Poets Pub.

©2026 Christopher Reilley 

 

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