christine-staufenberg
American
I'm not really interesting. Well, I guess I am. Some say I am, but I don't really think I am. My poetry isn't like most I guess. I don't rhyme, and I don't use lovely words. I just write whats on my mind. Maybe one day I can be a really good writer than uses fancy words in her every day vocabulary. I'm only 16, I don't really expect much from myself. But we shall see. yes?
Just want to freak out
and cry
and then laugh
and drown myself in my bath tub for a few minutes.
Open my eyes
and laugh.
Be okay.
Realize what this world has to offer,
and then
forever hold my peace.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 8:54 PM UTC
Painter with a paintbrush
Drummer with a drumstick
Guitarist with a guitar
Poet with a pen
It's all the same
The artists and their tools
Aug 16, 2012
Aug 16, 2012 at 12:06 PM UTC
It's human nature,
Something that should not require thought.
An instinct.
And yet - I don't know how and I don't know why.
Tell me,
Why exactly do you try?
For the feeling of sweet accomplishment,
For pride,
To make yourself feel good?
Or, to make others happy?
How is that a good reason?
I mean, are you happy?
Are you, in face happy
When you try, are you the one happy
or is someone else the one happy.
Not trying is just giving up
Turning your back against humans,
Your own race,
Or is it?
Are you still human if you shut everyone away,
Stop thinking and feeling until you are
Empty?
Why try if there is no point,
No point in living,
In caring about anyone or anything.
We all die in the end.
There isn't some type of reward after death.
We're nothing.
So, lets all stop trying.
Jul 1, 2012
Jul 1, 2012 at 8:46 PM UTC
Ghosts cover the sky like a large, grey sheet with the sun trying so hard to shine thought that it's breaking into a sweat. Bus doors open, feet appear on the black wet pavement. A woman appears, the doors close and the bus is gone in an instant. It's been a very long time since Alaska has seen the graveyard. With each step she takes memories shoot her mind like a bullet shooting through her head. The air is clear, quite. Alaska clears her throat, raises her head and keeps walking with her chin held high. She walks up to a white marble colored gravestone, kneels down and kissed the ground. The engraving read:
Ashton Thomas
January 1990 - September 2013
A beloved soul mate, son, and father.
Her eyes were closed, soaked in her own tears. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a wrinkled small piece of paper. She unfolded the paper while shutters ran through her body. Finally, the paper was opened and slowly fell to the ground. Instead of picking it back up, Alaska brought her head down to the ground and read the paper. She skimmed it once, and then twice, raised her head, and then her body also bringing herself to her feet. She cleared her throat, and then spoke with confidence:
Hello there soul mate of mine;
Are you missing me now?
Hello there veteran;
Did your honor let you down?
From your head
To your toes;
Covered in clothes.
With your gun in your hands,
and the helmet on your head.
Did they put you in the right bed?
The bed you stay in for the rest of eternity,
Covered in dirt and dampness
The bed of death.
So here I am, forgiving you.
Leaving you.
Forgetting you.
Until the day, I join you.
And then she turned around. Wiped away the wetness from her eyes. She felt new, as though something had risen from her. The weight of the world is no longer there. The grey clouds in the sky soon disappeared and the sun was shinning through. Alaska walked out of the cemetery proud that day.
Jul 1, 2012
Jul 1, 2012 at 8:13 PM UTC
What were we imagining?
One day you finally know what you had to do,
I mean, it's head clenched
the tug at your ankles,
the buddha in my palm
at times I wish I could meet in a duel
and if I were ready, I would take my revenge.
Jul 1, 2012
Jul 1, 2012 at 7:53 PM UTC
I don't know.
Maybe the static in my head, or the heartbeat I long for everyday.
or maybe the running my legs like to do, no matter what pain they end up with.
Maybe it's my chapped lips and my oddly shaped head,
-it's like a circle wanting to turn into an oval-
What part of me is actually me though?
Music? No. Everyone loves everything.
The thing that I love, that no one else can like I do though, is Craig.
Pathetic - what makes me, me is my love that no one else can give to him.
No, no, no
there must be more to me.
But what?
The anger that shines through due to family, the scatterness of wantings that surround me,
or maybe, just maybe,
it's everything you could ever think of.
Into one.
Jul 1, 2012
Jul 1, 2012 at 7:47 PM UTC
The unknown scares me.
The afterdeath,
who you are,
who I am,
and
who I will be.
It all scares the hell out of me.
Why we all live on the planet,
why I was born.
No one has the answers
Everything in my life has unknown reasons.
Death
human existence.
Why is there such a thing?
No one will ever know,
and it scares me.
Like I said,
the unknown scares me.
Jan 6, 2012
Jan 6, 2012 at 9:38 PM UTC
I sit here in my writing mood,
I want to write about you.
You're on my mind and I want to write about you.
But can't.
There's absolutely no words I know,
that can explain my love for you.
I know it sounds stupid, corny and yet again
-stupid.
But honestly, I love you.
You're here, and there, you're everywhere.
In my mind, out of my mind.
In front of my eyes, and behind them too.
When I saw your face, I felt like passion out.
-But that's just me.
Or it was you, considering I saw you and had the though go through my mind,
"He's actually mine".
Jan 6, 2012
Jan 6, 2012 at 9:26 PM UTC
I'll have to see this happen.
My rock n' roll fantasy.
Pull out the spotlights,
drums and guitars.
Let's make this happen.
The rock n' roll fantasy.
So, take my hand
and lets play music together.
Forever and ever.
Let Rock n' Roll live.
Jan 6, 2012
Jan 6, 2012 at 9:16 PM UTC