Vienna, Austria   
Thank you for this pain. I need it for my art All Kenna's Poems are licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. Read more
Thank you for this pain. I need it for my art All Kenna's Poems are licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. Read more
Kenna
Kenna
Oct 8, 2012

I didn't mean for it to end like this, this wasn't meant to happen.
Broken shards and broken hearts.
I watched it tip and tumble and break.
I watched her countance tremble and shake.
I broke her.
My best friend, my superhero sidekick.
My clumsy hands had strangled her with my clinging affection.
I only wanted to show her

how much I cared
how much I cared
how much I cared

Oh did I care!
I cared enough to kill.
I cared enough to move mountains and change lives and shift perspectives.
I cared enough to leave.

It was better
It was better
It was better

Not for me!!!
Not for her!!!

For us, it was better
For us.

Smile: a pleasant or agreeable appearance, look, or aspect. is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Kenna
Kenna
Oct 21, 2012

Clumps of red lacquered strings
twisting and wriggling

They just won't unstick
They cling together with stubborn love

Basil leaves hopelessly floating through the eternity of red sauce and garlic
Chopped up and sprinkled thoughtlessly throughout the disarray

Yet, somehow, little strands of spaghetti manage to stay together
and
I find myself
envying them

Sticky Spaghetti by Kenna McCafferty is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Kenna
Kenna
Nov 29, 2012

I've got a surprise.
It's in my hand.
I'm holding it.
Want to see?

Grumpy?
Mad?
Bitchy?
Fucked-up?

Yes
Yes
Yes
Yes

Why?

Everything.
This room makes me cry.
Your eyes make me scream.
This situation makes me yell.
You face makes me sob.

You don't understand.
I don't understand.
Oh, well
Just keep giving me hell.
Oh, well
Doesn't matter.

Not like I care.
Not like I asked anything from you.
Not like I don't need anything back.
Not like I sat and listented and solved all your problems and never once talked about myself.
Not like I ever helped you.
Or like I have problems too.

I'm afraid I haven't paid the title a proper homage.
Oh well,
I can't to anything right
anymore.

I honestly am useless, this is the worst poem in the world. I'm just so ANGRY

Middle Finger by Kenna is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Kenna
Kenna
Nov 22, 2012

During a walk through the hallway
of the primary school
I find hallways
filled with turkeys and leafs and stiff scrawled characters.
What is Mr. Smith's class thankful for?
Flowers and toys and cars and dresses and pink and purple and soccer and skirts and barbies and family.

How could you sum up all of the things you are thankful for in one word?
At the end of the hallway I am faced with a choice:
What are you thankful for?
-----------------------------------------------------------­------------------------------------------------------------
What­ am I thankful for?
Happiness, and family and security and nature and
friends.
I am thankful for friends.
I am thankful for laughs and chatts and cries and sobs and games and smiles.

I am thanful for facial contortions and 80s dance sessions,
for inabilty to speak.
I am thankful for hobos, eating on the side of the road,
and for devious scheymes of intoxicatation.

Hep beni anlayan bir arkadaşım var müteşekkirim
and who listens to my sob stories.
I am thankful for singing in the rain.
And styling hair in the sink
for screeching and howling
and hissing.

I am thankful for obkirchergasses,
for Ströcks and for ice cream plarlours.
I am thankful for mentos,
and walnuts.

I am thankful for bad lip readings and hilarious youtube vidoes.
I am thankful for unknown languages and nymphs
and for eloquence.
I am thankful for good taste in music
and for strong opinions.

I am thankful for dancing indian pirates with demon chicks and fireballs.
I am thankful for two-headed teenagers and barbeques.
I am thankful for God and healthy choice prayers,
and Hawaii get aways.

I am thankful for huge, hanging sweaters and crazy, funky leggings.
I am thankful for deep talks about the world's lack of beauty
and for poetry buddies.

I am thankful for dodgeball playing mice,
and poor old wenches.
I am thankful for pirate and mermaid adventures.

I am thankful for the looks we get:
looks of loud disapproval,
and whispers of quiet exasperation.

I am thankful for golden men and loud singing,
for crazy dances with crazy cousins and cute brothers.
I am thankful for Aunt Jemima.

I am thankful for banging on metal bars with rocks and shouting at the top of our lungs.
I am thankful for climbing over gates in order to not step on cracks.
I am thankful for amazing humanities teachers.
I am thankful for a laugh when the day is over.
-----------------------------------------------------------­---------------------------------------------------
How those kids manage to fit all of their thankfulness into one word  is beyond me.
Even the one-word things we are thankful for, must be described with a million words.

For my dearest, lovely Isabelle <3
Kenna
Kenna
May 21, 2015

She was ugly.
A snake of a girl- beady
blue eyes and
blood-red toenails.

The small snigger creeping
up through her perfectly
kept teeth as she spat
at the garbage
of the street: the creatures
she couldn’t see
through her beady
blue eyes.

Her mama would dress her
up in yellow ribbons and green bows.
“Why honey,
you make a sweet little
dandelion,”.

She liked to be
a dandelion, but secretly
she dreamed of being
a marigold:
                                                                ­                       Lips parted to the sun,
                                                                ­                                       seeds planted
                                                         ­                        in the rich soil of her own
                                                                ­                                             blackness.
She wanted to be a marigold.
But she was just
a dandelion,
stepping on petals and
weeding out whatever
she longed to be.

Inspired by Toni Morrison's eye-opening novel (pun not intended)
Kenna
Kenna
Aug 7, 2012

Lights flash.
Glowsticks twirl.
rip   snap   glow
rip snap glow
ripssnapglow
ripsnapglow
rispnapskgoa
thelkaljth
the words blend
the sounds smear
the colors undulate
and suddenly
i heave
i hurl
i barf
i puke
my stomach caves
my body shivers
my brow sweats
my knees quiver
i lurch to the ground
splashing in my warm milky surprise.
and expectedly
i puke
i barf
i hurl
i heave
the world twists
the technicolor dream-coat of Donny Osmond happiness swells.
it rips
it pulls
it tears
it sucks
and I'm a hostage to its psychedelic screams.
Faces twist into positions they aren't meant to hold.
gasps wheeze into my pores, burrowing like soft, comforting mole rats into my being.
I'm dissected.

Tye Dye Dreams is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Kenna
Kenna
Sep 7, 2012

Head spinning
Feet tapping
Mind wrapping
Thought trapping
Idea capping
Desperation mapping
Quality lacking

Spaces filled
Time killed
Not thrilled
Answers willed

Nails biting
Cheaters sighting
After all nighting
Wrongs not righting
Feel like flighting

Brainpower waning
Lack of knowledge maintaining
Wisdom draining
Composure regaining

Test failing
Arms flailing
Letters mailing
Face paling
The big unveiling
No more prevailing
The action entailing:
My annihilation

Disorganized Chaos is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Kenna
Kenna
Oct 29, 2012

"You look good together"
I know
"You would be cute together"
I see that
"I think he likes you"
Doubtful,
I've never even been considered

But apparently
I'm not good enough
I'm an untouchable

Too unique
Too smart
Too independent

Not enough breast
Not enough ass
Not enough popularity

I wish I could say
that it doesn't bother me

but I watch all the fakes with their perfect boyfriends
and I feel sad
and I yearn for that
and I think we wouldn't be fake
we would be real

I wish I could say
"His problem, he's missing out."
but I can't
because,
I'm missing out too

Picture Perfect by Kenna McCafferty is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Kenna
Kenna
Jul 3, 2012

Tick Tock
Waiting
Tick Tock
Wondering
Tick Tock
Hoping
Tick Tock
Standing
Tick Tock
Walking
Tick Tock
Searching
Tick Tock
Listening
Tick Tock
Running
Tick Tock
Hiding
Tick Tock
Waiting
Tick Tock
Wondering
Tick Tock
Hoping
Tick Tock
Standing
Tick Tock
Walking
Tick Tock
Searching
Tick Tock
Listening
Tick Tock
Hiding
TICK

Tick Tock is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Kenna
Kenna
May 16, 2015

Sometimes
I see a picture.
A picture of a woman
in a kitchen.

Her hair is tied back. But sometimes
it’s not.

Sometimes she winks at me.
A knowing
smile and twitch
of an eyelid.
Sometimes.

Sometimes she’s angry.
Drenched
in the sweat of steamed
broccoli and cauliflower.
Sometimes.


Sometimes she’s cleaning.
Scrubbing her kitchen
spotless. Red tomato
sauce and broken
glasses.
Sometimes.

Sometimes she wilts.
Beside the petunias.
Black
and purple.
Blue
and pink.
Sometimes.

Sometimes she’s spilling.
Water flooding
over the counter
top and stuck
to the clotted drain.
Sometimes.

Sometimes she sees me. Usually
not.  Sometimes she smiles. Usually
not. Sometimes I help her. Usually
not: sometimes.

#abuse   #woman   #picture   #bystander  
Kenna
Kenna
Jul 8, 2013

If there were a hundred words for every feeling,
and a hundred feelings for every word
I wouldn't know
what word to write
nor which feeling to feel.

Kenna
Kenna
Sep 4, 2012

"Get out!"
He yells; orders
"Get out of the car!"
I sit.
"NOW!"
I look around
sorry faces gawk at me
they should be sorry

letting me fend for myself
walking into the desert battlefield with me
then stealing my bags and running away
with sorry snickers
sorry
Damn well should be.

"I'M SERIOUS! GET OUT NOW! OR I'LL PULL YOU OUT!"
I gaze out the window
barren deserts,
mossy, sandy mountains,
endless stretches of hard, dead highway

The lock unlocks,
my belongings gather,
my shoes go on,
the handle moves,
the door opens,
my foot ventures to the sandy ground
the door closes
the engine starts
the car moves away
Sorry hands wave at me
my body is still
My face holds steady; a deathly glare of dementia
The car disappears
Realization slaps me dead in the face with its stone hard fingers.

Did that really just happen?
Am I truly all alone?
I look around.
NO people.
NO cars.
Just an endless stretch of highway
Epiphany strokes me with fire warm palms.

I'm alone!
I'm alone!
Sweet freedom!
Sweet, sticky, horrid freedom!
I hurl
I cough and spit wheeze
I wipe my mouth
the saccharine taste of bile still fresh.
I thirst.
I grab my camel back and take a small, deliberate swig.
I put on my backpack and stalk away from the speck of dust car.
I grimace.
I rummage through my never-ending pockets.
I count out five dollars and seventy five cents worth of change.
I grunt.
I hike up the dusty trail.
All ahead of me is sand and dust, sickness and deluging concepts of freedom.
I march on.
I feel the earth echo beneath me as each grain of sand separates.
With each trudging movement my feet slip backward.
With nowhere left to go and nothing left to do
I walk on
with my smile of freedom and my baggage of
Desertion

Deep Desert Desertion is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Kenna
Kenna
Aug 7, 2012

I look around
and it seems that everyone is happy,
that they are doing something right.
I look around
and it appears that I'm sad,
that I'm doing something wrong.
Well it ever unwrong itself?

Each letter thrown unnaturally on to their haphazard paper is worshiped, studied, praised
by all.
I've been doing this longer...
Shouldn't I be better?
I watch as all others rise on their platforms of aimless potential.
Raw potential.
What about skill?
I sand alone on a once even; now sunken chasm of lost heart.

The award goes to...
It's gonna be me
It's gonna be me
Everyone knows it.
It's GOTTA be me.
It's not me.



See that tiny dot?
That black speck of irrelevance??
Do you know what it is???
That's me.

And do you see that sea of shining smiles????
The golden accomplishments gleaming?????
Do you know what that that is?
That's them.

Once upon a time, I was up there,
gleaming along with the rest of them.
Maybe even a podium step higher.
Then suddenly, as if powered by light speed elevators, they shot away.
Their glimmering faces glowering down at me and snickering.

I don't understand.
How is what they did any better than what I did?
Who is keeping score?
Betcha my bottom dollar their prejudice.
Whoever they are they caged me in black walls of shunned solitude.
And proclaimed a law against me.
What against me?
I'm not sure.
But the dark walls are closing in, the glistening sea is shrinking
and that tiny little dot...
That's me.

Umpire is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Kenna
Kenna
Jul 15, 2012

Most people grow gardens with flowers and peas.
But I am not most people.
My garden is rather unique.
Come quickly outside if you dare take a peek.

Follow me out the door
but don't be too hasty
I will return you here looking awfully pasty.

Into the woods we go
with a feeling of unease
remind yourself you may turn 'round if you please.

You wear an expression of bravery
plastered to  your face
I'll warn you that is entirely out of place.

My garden lies far, far away
The entrance: this long narrow path
Upon return I suggest a nice lukewarm bath.

We march on silently
Straight to my clearing
Where all that dwells is hardly endearing.

We arrive at gates
I push them wide open
and glance at your face, the expression most potent.

You stare out at my garden
Your weary eyes cautious
Searching for normality with obvious malice.

There is nothing of that sort to be found here.
So sorry to disappoint you, my dear.

From the unicorn pasture
to the golden archer
near the tentacle bed
and the swooping vulture

Round the corner lives my large pet dino
being lead by a petite albino
by the pond grows my crop of egg head
while nearby lies a heard of enormous sized rhino

Your gaze falls on my pink sparkly pegasus
being rode by a tiara topped princess
on a field of grass that is blood-red
bordering a lake worthy of the great greek god Isis.

As I watch your face change with shock and a pinch of delight
I see you won't put up a fight
You'll help me grow and raise my unparalleled garden
You might even defend it and be my trusty warden.

All that matters is that my garden is safe.
And to be honest, I couldn't be happier.

I'm trying to branch out and not only write freeform... let me know how to improve!


Mystery Garden is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Kenna
Kenna
Oct 8, 2012

The petals, lovely as red violet gossamer sheets, tumble down
The plant, livley as a deep red carpet, haunts us
It whispers to me
The petal hits the ground and the world draws one, collective, wistful, silent breath
The thorns protrude like spears through a wounded man; with malice
They warn me
A sweet leaf crinkles a shade of brown no leaf should be
It flits down
My head spinning
The leaf hits the ground and the dizzy pleasure is overwhelming

She cuts and gnaws and breaks through the stem.
"Mommy will like it, Mommy will be happy"
Mommy is happy, happy her daughter killed.
The flower, in its last deperate gasp calls to me, it screams to me
it pleads and begs
then wilts
The most beautiful corpse
It hangs supended in the cage of one young girl's hand as its comrades continue to be uprooted, finding home in the mass grave of a crystal vase.
What a funeral, all the family gathered around these warriors, yet the family ignores these limp soldiers.
Then the next day, these majestic martyrs no longer seem satisfactory and their processtion of far off glory marches away,
to the bin, where it finds home amongst bannana peels and
last night's
dinner

Silent Breaths is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Kenna
Kenna
Jul 1, 2012

Here I am;
the asphalt covering what is left of my withered self expression.
Here I am;
with nothing but a package of what small personality I did salvage.
Here I am;
awaiting the exile to the inner circle.
Here I am;
wishfully knowing what is next to come.

Here I will be;
a foreigner to  self controlled emotions.
Here I will be;
sent into the burning throat that we call trend.
Here I will be;
a roller-coaster supervisor, but never a rider.
Here I will be;
shamelessly placid.

There I was;
entrenched in my own beliefs.
There I was;
guiltily independent.
There I was;
unique to the tiniest hair on my body.
There I was;
never questioning who I was.





then came the fire





the sweet flames clawed
ripped to shreds
they traveled deep with in the vault I called my spirit
they licked at each crumbling memory of me that would set me apart
their tongues ablaze and thirsting angrily for each asset that made me different
they drooled lullabies
they sweated sanctuary
they left
as if it was nothing but a dream




the fire was gone.






Now





Here I Am.

Sweet Honey Lipped Fire is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Kenna
Kenna
Jul 15, 2012

Your eyes burn caverns in my soul
Your breath sears scars into my heart
Your horns rake spears across my free will.
You bind me for your life.

I sculpt your mind to ash.
I whittle your heart void.
I paint my own expressions across your face.
I fight you for my life.

In this dramatic scenario who is the enemy?

The fight begins
You lunge into my open arms
I trap you.
* +1 point for me
Your fangs tear my skin
+1 point for you
My mind flies and whirls
Your eyes emulate.
I watch you.
I watch you writhe and offer my assistance.
My hand reaches out...
You grab my hand
-1 point for you
Upon the first touch your mine.
I feel it
This hypnotic state encloses you.
I whisper you commands.
I toy with your morals.
I complicate your values.
+3 points for me*
You leave, according to orders.
The fight is over and I have won.

I rest.
In my sleep I dream.
I dream you.
-1 point for me
I thought the fight was over....
You control my dreams.
+1 point for you
You bind me in this nocturnal jail.
+1 point for you
You lock my words
+1 point for you
The dream is over and you have won.

We are back to where we started.
or are we?
I can't be certain.
You do the math.

Minotaur is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Kenna
Kenna
Aug 9, 2012

Standing in front of the mirror
pinching, pulling, tugging
twisting, rubbing, covering
Sighing.

Flat, they said
Their sausage fingers pointing
Their sickly mouths snickering
The others laugh; agreeing quickly
Those ugly bastards
like they're any better

Are they?
Watching all the pretty girls
and their boyfriends
and their fake smiles
and their push up bras
is that the only way now?
the only way to be liked?
to even be considered?

Baggy eyes
Puffy hair
Pimply face
Scrawny legs
Hairy arms
Who's ever gonna love that?

Someone; someone a thousand times more special than twenty of those ugly bastards combined.

Ogre Faced Mirror is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Kenna
Kenna
Jul 6, 2012

My head in hands
My weeping stifled
the creatures in my head
swirling screaming tormenting each and every thought daring enough to cross my mind.
each comment a blow to my character.

These spiraling insecurities unthinkably true.
Could it be true?

Swampy hands pulling me under
under civilization
a whirlpool of consumerism
selling the next thing
selling me

I DON'T WANT TO BE SOLD

I battle these ideas, these values being forced upon me
They lock me in jail.
I plead
They only stare back at me with stone hard eyes.

I pout.
I will not be sold
I will not be some media prostitute
I am me.
I cannot be advertised.
I cannot be owned.

"Take your commanding hold of me"
I will not succumb to your sickly media culture
I will not hold off for you.

You may hold me in this suffocating cell for as long as you please
I may live and die a captive
But I will never be yours

Liberated Life is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Kenna
Kenna
May 12, 2015

She likes to eat nectar-
ines. In the kitchen, on a bloated
summer day.

Hair tied back and plastered
to the crown
of her forehead.  

Fingers lazily drumming out
some country
song on the  kitchen counter.

She lets the pools of sweet,
stinging nectar
and saliva linger
on her fingers and pierce
her tear ducts.

Her mama used to
tell her to eat  
like a lady.

Starched fingers,
and dry mouth.

But you just can't  be
a lady
when you're playing
God.

 
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