Troubled teen-ramblings
rustle in the palms of your hands.
Your anger shatters crystal:
the polished window
to the world you will never know;
forever limited
to the opaque vision
of stolen childhood dreams.
You can't understand
how my season balances
between fruit-punch parties
and beer-keg gigs,
or why I feel the need
to sling phrases of inky tar
into whitecap puffs of smoke,
and then lock them away from you.
Your invasion
peels away leaves:
secret playgrounds,
stolen kisses, innocent
trials of my teen life.
My random reflections, severed,
bleed on broken glass.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 7:20 AM UTC
Troubled teen-ramblings
rustle in the palms of your hands.
Your anger shatters crystal:
the polished window
to the world you will never know;
forever limited
to the opaque vision
of stolen childhood dreams.
You can't understand
how my season balances
between fruit-punch parties
and beer-keg gigs,
or why I feel the need
to sling phrases of inky tar
into whitecap puffs of smoke,
and then lock them away from you.
Your invasion
peels away leaves:
secret playgrounds,
stolen kisses, innocent
trials of my teen life.
My random reflections, severed,
bleed on broken glass.
© 1993, Iona Nerissa
All poetry under the names Lori Carlson or Iona Nerissa are the sole property of Lori Carlson.
Please seek permission before using any of my writings.
~Lori Carlson~
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