I figure I’ll find out more about myself
the more I break
up myself
into little tiny pieces.
I figure my mother might find herself after she’s cleaned up the house,
but hoarders can only do so much,
and she sought salvation with crystals and books and hiding away our pasts in boxes and boxes that are stacked from floor to ceiling.
I figure my dad has found himself; he used to
eat lunch alone in his car at work,
just so people would stop bothering him and he learned how to fly
but he hasn’t flown away
and I don’t think he ever will.
Annie is simple. Loves to laugh and
wants a white picket fence and all the
easy stuff and I am just
the stubborn kid who still pushes her nose up on car windows and
leaves marks of her face to see later,
the girl who my mother says will make
the worst mother and the girl who mother says
is too driven for her own good.
They know about the every-night
nightmares and the way I make my fingers bleed when I’m bored.
Dad wants me to write and open a restaurant,
I think he knows the most though
he says the least and gets
drunk the most
and loves killin’ those
**** Zombies
or what-have-you.
I figure I’m just some sort of
****** up rich white kid
with too much time on her hands
to let herself feel happy,
because it’s far far easier
to just drift and sink in
something deeper and worse.
One time my teacher told us
to write a poem about anything
but not about our “boring teenage ****
This is the boring teenage **** poem I never got to write,
this is
boring teenage ****
but I’m sorry,
it’s all I’ve got on
a Tuesday
or actually it’s Friday and I’m not very good with
days or
even months and the numbers are getting even worse.
And it’s almost 2 AM so
this is what the fourth in a family writes when
there’s something stuck in her throat
that she can’t quite scream out.
Teacher,
here’s your
“boring teenage poem.”
Eat it.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 2:18 AM UTC
I figure I’ll find out more about myself
the more I break
up myself
into little tiny pieces.
I figure my mother might find herself after she’s cleaned up the house,
but hoarders can only do so much,
and she sought salvation with crystals and books and hiding away our pasts in boxes and boxes that are stacked from floor to ceiling.
I figure my dad has found himself; he used to
eat lunch alone in his car at work,
just so people would stop bothering him and he learned how to fly
but he hasn’t flown away
and I don’t think he ever will.
Annie is simple. Loves to laugh and
wants a white picket fence and all the
easy stuff and I am just
the stubborn kid who still pushes her nose up on car windows and
leaves marks of her face to see later,
the girl who my mother says will make
the worst mother and the girl who mother says
is too driven for her own good.
They know about the every-night
nightmares and the way I make my fingers bleed when I’m bored.
Dad wants me to write and open a restaurant,
I think he knows the most though
he says the least and gets
drunk the most
and loves killin’ those
**** Zombies
or what-have-you.
I figure I’m just some sort of
****** up rich white kid
with too much time on her hands
to let herself feel happy,
because it’s far far easier
to just drift and sink in
something deeper and worse.
One time my teacher told us
to write a poem about anything
but not about our “boring teenage ****
This is the boring teenage **** poem I never got to write,
this is
boring teenage ****
but I’m sorry,
it’s all I’ve got on
a Tuesday
or actually it’s Friday and I’m not very good with
days or
even months and the numbers are getting even worse.
And it’s almost 2 AM so
this is what the fourth in a family writes when
there’s something stuck in her throat
that she can’t quite scream out.
Teacher,
here’s your
“boring teenage poem.”
Eat it.
Request permission to use this poem