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.
I would love to know what you thought about this piece.
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