"angsty" poems
You are my dear, decadent desert,
My summer-thyme delight; Starlight.
Tonight’s your night, for you I write.
Radiant glow, fuzzed herbal hue.
My dear butterscotch icecream.
Sore arms churn thick, slick froth - Sauterne butter.
Gentle spread melts, dowsed in sweet, sugared innocence,
rich scents, then sits.
6 years pass quickly, youthhood gone;
My black swan, a third complete.
You, sauterne butter, mix with scotch -
Fermented, demented, invented to inebriate.
Golden brew dissociates reality -
Spinny, fuzzy, dizzy, funny… gone.
Go on again, dear fawn, 6 years pass,
Pant for the water, two-thirds complete.
12 years as toll to adolescence;
Icy, creamy, dreamy, element prepared.
Scoops of soft serve mix with years past - Angsty era.
Seductive spirits, beautiful brew.
At last, my summer-thyme delight dances with rhyme.
The lime-light shines; ten and eight.
Todays the date, stuff immaturity away.
Make room for the adulthoods’ good,
Scooped generously into a bowl
Shuttled and entrapped by me,
Melting, streaming, gleaming and freezing.
You awesome angel!
My pleasure supreme -
My dear butterscotch icecream.
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 6:43 PM UTC
today i achieved the farthest state from meditation
humanly possible
i slammed down the horn when the
wrinkled egg tried to place her stick in front of her.
my cat's hunger is only met by my
own intestinal growls,
and it's my anniversary.
i belong in a tribe of chimpanzees.
i'm too lazy to shower,
too angsty to sit still,
too apathetic to lift even one limb from that
sweet honey mud that clings to me,
that bubble of no-space, and
i have so many ideas.
i want to do everything.
but the pebbles turn to dark walls when
they should be cobblestone,
everyone cares and is trying to help me
i'm alone, alone, alone.
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 12:18 AM UTC
This is not an angsty teenage poem
of love lost in that moment when you realized you wern't the exception
This isn't the story of love found over a cup of coffee
This is the poem for those who cannot speak
afraid of the havoc their words will wreak
the voices that tell stories worth sharing
wanting to be set free
to see light
to scream
Those who sit in fear
of not being believed
and for those who's name they'll never speak
The star athlete
the man down the street
the man in the corner of the bar
their best friends brother, in his car.
this is a poem for those who shed tears and wish they were layers of skin
this is the poem for words unspoken
for those who wish that all they lost was love
for those who's tongue's gone numb
for those who wish this was an angsty teenage poem.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 8:21 PM UTC
Oranges you make my hands sticky.
You make my knife sticky.
my clothes, my mouth, everything sticky.
i wonder if it is worth it just to be healthy.
i wonder if it is worth it to eat the tasty insides.
i wonder about the worth in anything when i eat you oh orange you.
You remind me of outcome - effort = worth and how i hate that about you.
Don't make me think, don't make me sad and angsty.
For God's sake your supposed to just be a fruit.
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 2:19 AM UTC
my friend said she’s
Quirky
Angsty
And different
She’s not she’s insecure
And I don’t mean any offence bu that statement
But she thinks the chains around her neck make her appeal to her abuser
And the fact that she’s never, really, properly drunk and yet pretends she’s wild and has lives lives she hasn’t
She says “ if you ever need someone to be a crackhead I’m right here”
She’s not
She’s insecure
She has sisters
I have brothers
And although we’re no longer defined by genders I think we are now
She wants to be like her younger sister
But she’s not popular like her
She lacks for charisma
But is sweet and kind
She thinks “cage the elephant” is indie music
And thinks listening to the strokes makes her cool
And that turning of capital letters on her phone somehow makes her “not like other girls”
She’s wrong
I don’t do any of that **** and I don’t pretend to be quirky, angsty, and different
And all the boys prefer me.
And yet I’m insecure
She should go back to fan-girling over Shakespeare
And writing books and poetry for fun
You’re not
Quirky
Angsty
And different you’re just insecure
Ok yeah good. ? !
Got it perf.
Vibes. Cool,,, lel!’v
Jul 8, 2021
Jul 8, 2021 at 1:01 PM UTC
I want to go to a record store with you
we can spend the little money we have left
on The Smiths, The Rolling Stones, The Who, Pink Floyd
for an hour or two we can be angsty teens in the 80s
who drink cheap beer and steal our parents cars
lets pretend were running away
from home, from school, from everything we know
I wanna lay on the floor of your apartment
put a record on the turntable and hear that sweet crackle
we'll listen to what we've bought
and pretend we're watching the stars through the ceiling
they'll dance to the beat like a laser show in our eyes
while mind blowing guitar riffs and drum beats fill our spirits
-kk
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 2:40 AM UTC
a ghost white fluffy fluff **** ball of fur
kneading on my thigh
want to smack it and knock it off
but it’s purring and it’s warm
my friends have the cute
meow meow meows
and feeds it a lot so I pet the kitty
when I’d rather fall asleep or pet you
Soon, it jumps off the bed
presumably to race up and down
the stairs at night, watch the ghost
floof away— its fur hiding its legs
and looking like a hovering white cloth
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 12:04 PM UTC
i saw the greater part of creation succumb to the piracy of numbness-
the nimbus rage of torpedo cigars blowing blue-grey smoke into the dark lashes of love-struck little *****
thirsty angels with tangled curls of hair bashing their heads against bathroom walls
screaming under their breath, not enough.
i saw the green plastic- and her orange eyes
and the soap-bubbles on the sidewalk
and the soap frothing all over the sidewalk
and the glass that took off like pristine bullets in every direction
and-
blood running over the cum-covered lip of the curb, flowing into the street-
down to the drain, dripping into the hungry orifices of the big metal grate
into sewer pipe salvation-
destination unhindered by your humanity.
god, this must be insanity
and not even the good kind.
but
let's go watch the fire-works up on the roof-
crawl out the attic window
i let you go first to watch the electric calico
trickle down your legs like a promise.
i like the birds that fly in and out of your hair-
the handkerchief at your hip,
i like the crazy and the cool-
the too cute for comfort
and the fake angsty danger of your darkside.
like morphine-
the band or the drug?
you're ironically detached
with your semi-satanic languidity-
and overdue serenity
[i got a few overdue books at the library.]
[they closed the library a long time ago.]
i like to play catch with your presence-
our eyes with the back-and-forth,
the half-sent glances when we think the other isn't looking.
but we were always looking-
or at least i was always looking at you.
i could see half inside of you.
you were always half-naked-
in the scanty rags of the latest fashion.
when you breathed it was like nectarine noises-
and muffled yelps of love.
i watched your shirt move up and down on your chest
and told you about "never knows best"
it seems
i've seen the greater part of creation succumb to the supreme softness
and the best laid plans of motorcycles and mini-vans fall to pieces in my palms.
and you were the greatest creation i saw on the roof that day.
don't bat another pretty little eyelash at those tiny flashing pieces that go past like ricochets
it's just one more night of strangeness
and then you can be free again.
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 1:34 AM UTC
Angst angst angst angst angst;
Angsty Angsty angst;
******* people, ****
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 10:17 AM UTC
the other night,
i had a dream;
usually,
i don’t remember
my dreams—
those unconscious
musings
of my mind—
but this night
was different;
maybe it had
something to do
with the fact
that i had fallen
in the shower
half an hour
before laying it
down on the
pillow...
...a trickle of
blood running
down my forehead,
transforming quite
alarmingly into
a babbling brook
consisting entirely
of chocolate milk;
my raft bobbed
up and down,
the demon who
haunts my nightmares
now clad in a
tuxedo—
a nice change
from the bright
pink trench coat
he usually wears...
...the demon’s
strong hands
propel the
craft forward
with a rather
Huckleberry Finn-like
affectation;
i turn my
attention from
my oldest friend
to the shore,
sparkling with
broken glass,
thumbtacks,
and mathematical
equations;
there,
i glimpse my classmates
doing burpees...
...suddenly,
a car crash
occurs;
the chocolate milk
becomes a very
narrow,
winding road,
the end of which
is obscured by
an angsty cloud
of disappointment;
the elevator
plummets horizontally toward
the 3rd sub-basement
of the shower;
my friend in
the tuxedo offers me
a steaming
cup of hot chocolate...
...which burned
my tongue,
causing me to cackle
wildly
and toss the
mug into the
abyss;
**** you cup!”
i scream,
utilizing my
full lung capacity
as i begin to
fall again,
down,
down,
down;
and then i was awake,
sweating, bleeding;
i may have a concussion...
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 3:37 PM UTC
If it wasn't almost 2016, I would call you on your house phone from my corded phone in my kitchen, we'd chat quickly as to not rack up my phone bill, we would make dinner plans and call it good.
But it is almost 2016 and I'm actually looking at your Facebook and your girlfriends Instagram and I'm laughing / crying over the gag worthy photos she has you featured in.
If it wasn't almost 2016, I wouldn't even know you had a girlfriend and I wouldn't have tried to save the poor girl from your ***** lying ways.
But it is almost 2016, and when Snapchat helped me find out you had a girlfriend while still trying to **** me, I DID try to save the poor girl from your ***** lying ways. You told me not to say anything more, but I had to stop this because I know the feeling of a heartbreak like the one you were about to cause her.
If it wasn't almost 2016, I wouldn't have access to every social media platform that allows me to see every single detail of your life. I wouldn't be driving myself crazy with questions and no answers.
But it is almost 2016, and I get to watch your life unfold with someone else and wonder why I came in last, still no answers.
If it wasn't almost 2016, forget tinder and my quirky bio with the 6 best photos I've ever taken, you'd call me on my corded phone because you actually knew IRL how fun and quirky I am and you'd already have seen me in all my green eyed, beautiful brunette glory.
It is almost 2016 and that means I am just another girl that you aren't looking for something serious with because you're a boy in his early 20s craving freedom. Instead you send me ***** text messages because you're a boy in his early 20s and you met me on Tinder. I am a girl in my early 20s and when you met me on Tinder, you assumed I wanted less than a relationship and a little more than a "hey how are you?" convo.
If it wasn't almost 2016, you wouldn't have detailed all the ways you would make me feel good because would you ever really say those things to my ******* face?
But it is almost 2016, and you didn't say any of those things to my ******* face, you said it beneath the unsolicited picture of you naked in your bathroom mirror and you even added that ******* emoji with the sunglasses, like what you were doing to me was actually super cool.
If it wasn't almost 2016, I wouldn't have known that you were feeding lies to me on a silver platter, I would have gorged myself on your tasty sweet nothings.
But it is almost 2016, and I am starving myself of something worthy and filling because I can't stop reading the tasty sweet nothings you are feeding her.
It is almost 2016 and I wish I could have said **** you to your two timing face instead of via text message.
**** you, again and again and again.
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 6:03 PM UTC
For you to think about
Always write what you feel
the pen, the paper and the steel
Feelings rapture on the page
Engraved forever, feel your rage
So let it flow angsty teen
Set it stone, always clean
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 9:07 PM UTC
If my life were a movie it would be one of those films that gets hyped up to no end because I’m one of those kids with the rough childhood who just wants to make it
When in reality it’s just a less action packed but just as dark dc movie
My story has also been confused with a marvel movie since the protagonist is me
And i can't help but cut my overbearing traumatic tragedies with self deprecating comedies
But my life to me feels more like an edgar wright movie where the action isn’t as exciting as The fact that I was able to get out of bed this morning
And my day to day reality will forever feel like a motion blur of edited out negative emotion
I think Maybe my life could be a wes anderson movie stuck in one color palette for the rest of my eternity
And my maturity tends to overwhelm me
my journey is like an anderson movie because i tend to create a world around me
Taking time to shape my own protected reality so that the outside world can’t hurt inside me
If im being honest though i want my life to be a spielberg movie that grabs attention of all ages coming from all sorts of places
I want to spin my truths into his fantastic fantasies where no one equates my past with me
But at the same time I want my life to be a blast from the past john hughes movie where i find a way to stop my past from haunting me
And everything ends up okay at the end of the day because my minds overbearing insecurities
No longer have control over me
Now i see that in actuality other peoples movies are just too much for who i truly want to be and how my trauma impacts me
I mean between my all of those boring biographies and my abundance of favorite movies
I’d want my life’s movie to be full of images depicting my fondest memories and all my angsty gen z tendencies
If my life were a movie i’d make it about how I am, or was, or am going to be
If my life were a movie I’d make it about me
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 12:24 PM UTC
i really don't understand why i am this way.
why every day is a struggle, why i have to dredge up
every single ******* positive thought from the parts of my heart
that continue to beat and bleed.
i really don't understand why i can do this.
why i can sling excuses and ******** why i can talk away
every single ******* positive thing that could happen to me when
all i want is something to smile at.
i really don't understand what keeps me here.
what keeps me holding on to you, what makes me think of
every single ******* positive thing you did for me
when there was so much negative.
i really, really don't understand why everything i write
is so angry, so sad, so ******* angsty,
even when i've had a wonderful day and i could swear to you,
i could swear it doesn't hurt anymore.
nothing hurts anymore, and nothing makes me angry.
walk away from everything i felt for you
and everything i did for you
and all the tears i ******* cried for you,
and it won't hurt me, not this time.
Apr 22, 2011
Apr 22, 2011 at 8:53 PM UTC
Hey, so I felt like writing.
But I didn’t know what to write.
So I’m here.
Talking to myself.
I’m eating pizza pockets in bed.
I’m listening to the **
I’m cold.
I’ve had a glass of summer red and it’s too early to sleep.
I’m thinking about Ben.
I’m thinking about my dad.
I’m thinking about where I’ll be in a month or two from now.
It’s hard to wake up some days.
Because I think this is as good as I’m going to get.
Because I’m not so good at this.
Any of it.
I’ve only just mastered breathing.
But functioning?
Sustaining healthy relationships?
I can’t even win the approval of the person that’s sole job is to love me whether I deserve it or not.
My dad has given me the cold shoulder before.
But this feels heavier.
And I can’t help but to think that perhaps I deserve it.
I’m not always very nice.
In fact I think sometimes I like the idea of people thinking I’m a complete *****
If I was a therapist I’d probably say something like: “It’s a defense mechanism.”
Yeah. Maybe.
Maybe I’m actually a really nice and I like being in the company of others.
Maybe.
Maybe I’ll find success in my future career.
Maybe I’ll live in a nice house
and I won’t **** up my children’s lives because I never had a proper parental figure.
Maybe I can give them the stability I’ve craved my whole life.
In a perfect world.
But the world is infamous for its lack of perfection.
What I hope to accomplish through my writing is complete honesty.
If nothing else, I want to be able to be honest with myself.
The one place I can do that is my writing.
Honesty comes easy on paper.
It’s softer. Gentler.
But words spoken always seem too harsh, and too loud.
I don’t know much about anything, but there are some things I do know.
I know that I want to give and receive love.
I know that there are parts of myself that I like to pretend don’t exist.
I know that I am scared of just about everything. But…
I think I will be okay despite the odds.
But I’m not sure okay is good enough.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 10:38 PM UTC
i doubt you know how much you mean to me.
If you did you'd be too creeped out to still be dating me.
But to me, you mean the world.
Not the "i'm nothing without you" kind, as I am a valid human being.
Not the "i can't go on if you leave" kind either as i know i could.
But i would really rather not.
Nor could i happily.
You're my world in the way that you make me a better person.
You are why i stay healthy when all i have is a cold.
You're why i drive safe and limit the stupid angsty **** i do
(believe it or not it is limited).
You're a good influence.
You're everything i wish i was and all that beachy ********
But you're so much more.
When i am lost you're my guide
(rife with dat symbolism)
needed more after i got GPS oddly.
When i can't think you're my muse.
You're my companion in this world whether you realize that or not.
The hotter, smarter, funnier,
more responsible, more beautiful half of me.
A liver half is enough to live but to live well it is best for a full one.
To continue this bad metaphor i am living well.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 2:17 AM UTC
Blue eyes serpent. The devil dressed in sinister clothing. Carve my heart, and it was bleeding in his hand. Lust swirled over head, passion laced on a sinful seduction.
A voice of reason, lost in his twisted words of appeal. I wanted his painful kiss, with my tongue scraping a razor blade deal.
His abuse is all knowing but only in the way of his desire.
Blue eyes demon; how I let you use me. Twisted and scorned by a hand of Hell; till there was nothing left but a wayward vessel. All of the memory's of our sweet serenity, gone and filled with angsty longevity .
How do I continue forth?
Walking this path of broken and cracked pavement.
I died a thousand times, watching you at the other end of the knife. If only you could see the blood on your hands.
I wanted to heal you. I wanted to feel you. I wanted to be closer to the time when you could finally see me.
Blue eyes, it's time for goodbye. You may still hold my beating heart, but alas I'm the one living and moving on.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 8:43 PM UTC
To write down all my fears would take a book.
My desires even more.
The big problem, however, is where they overlap.
To desire what i fear at least seems adventuresome, almost romantic.
Scary yes, but exciting. Like a roller coaster ride with a fear of falling, like i do.
Adulthood, the scary but most wonderful time of life.
Then there is the fear of what i desire.
That is a whole other beast entirely.
What if my desires are not good for others?
What if my desires steer me wrong?
What if i follow one path when another would have been better?
What if i don't achieve my desires?
What if all these existential, angsty thoughts are complicating things and themselves standing in the way?
What if?
What if indeed.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 8:47 PM UTC
As kids we were close,
Pushing each other on a swing during humid afternoons,
Scrapping over the biggest piece of cake,
Singing and strumming old rock songs on a video game,
Cheesing in the odd school picture together,
Hiding the family dog upstairs, cartoon shows on the tv,
Volume at its highest, all to drown the rows vibrating the walls
From downstairs,
It seemed back then we had each others back,
Sobbed for the same reasons at night,
Nervously bit at the skin around our nails over unknown noises,
Shook a knee with every thought of fleeing our hometown,
Yet now we don’t even know each other,
The distance runs thicker than blood,
He said she said infiltrating a possible recovery of a bond,
I often wonder how it can be, two people from
One home, both living on different planets,
Almost generations away from beliefs we once shared,
Pinching at each others emotions from another continent.
I found a journal from when I was my angsty teen self,
Words of fury coated most pages,
Some rhymes of regret,
Plenty of mischievous essays,
Page 94 had no explanation, just a date, some doodling
And one sentence,
“You were the first one to break my heart.”
As kids we were close,
But what do kids know.
Apr 10, 2021
Apr 10, 2021 at 9:36 AM UTC
He had a clock in his stomach
Time is a hungry crocodile
After eating your hand
And learning he likes the taste
That is when the arthritis kicked in
Or the unexplainable pain
Caused by a broken wrist
Or maybe just aching joints in the cold
I think of all the times I wanted to sever my own shadow
Question my presence
Even in moments of light
Where do I stand
If I cast no shade?
There is a boy
Who one time for hours
Pointed at a can of pringles
In the hopes that he could make it move
With only his mind
The bike he learned to ride on
Had flat tires
He one time shaved down and spiked the back of his head
Then grew his bangs out and dreaded them
He had an albino rat named snowflake
Those were his angsty years
Then he found this crocodile
And it was so cool
And it ticked like a time bomb
It didn’t hurt him or anything
So he kept it
Until one night it tried to eat him in his sleep
So he ran
But maybe it thought he was its mother
Or love wasn’t enough
Or it was just mean
He wonders if his got hungry too early
Burning bridges at both ends
Forcing him to jump in the middle
He was a darling child
And he was lost for a while
Then he was found
By a crocodile
With a clock in its belly
And really
Who doesn’t want a pet crocodile?
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 3:09 PM UTC
Father Christmas came and slipped
through the cracks
of my poorly constructed home
so quickly
and quietly
that I hardly marked the date.
I suppose it's my fault
for spending so much time
listening to angsty
drums and guitars
scream my name
that I can no longer hear
his voice in the tear
of wrapping paper
and Mr. Crosby's tunes.
But I caught a glimpse,
between the blinking
of red and white
on my tree,
when my mother smiled
as I opened my new suede shoes.
He's out there, hiding,
that ************
old man Christmas.
Hiding and trying
to make me change,
make me surrender
my joy to the jaded
state of adulthood.
I will not.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 6:47 PM UTC
cracked out
humble with heaps of pride
braggadocio Pinocchio
I haven’t slept in days
so watch the hours turn into haze
blown out of barely open windows
hide me from the world
I’m making a pristine machine - unbreakable
foreseeable as a weapon of poor taste
chasing wasted with chasers
are you shaking?
only with excitement
rage
hunger
My dad says get a job, get an education
so I chose a dead vocation with no hopes of vacations
and everybody is talking about the future as if it exists
it only exists in clenched fists and endless lists
of all the wrong turns you made on the journey
from then to now
I’m eating sacred cow meat - medium rare please
coming up with ways to scare these dumb ******* kids away from apathy
to put the shield over their hearts and the rifle in their hands
but wah wah nobody understands blah blah blah
shut the **** up for once
act like you actually have a pair of *****
even if you don’t
back in the day when we used to rob neighborhood garages of beer
and played with pills like candy
nobody threw tantrums about how unfair it all is
so you think the world owes you something?
the only thing it owes you is one death
so why are you wasting all of our time with your I could have saved the world
cry baby ********
I’m looking for slutty girls
pearl necklace on her checklist
so I can slam her on page verse
me versus the world, right?
left out by all the cool kids
drinking boohoo flavored kool-aid
so I made myself a parody of pretension
cunning, coming, ***********
you are the joke so I guess that makes me a punchline
I’m running sprints from the baseline until I’m throwing up the right choices
so continue with all of that angsty impotent sadness
so long as you stay out of my part of town
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 1:31 PM UTC
Angsty feelings portrayed with unflashy adjectives.
blah blah blah
Hateful words directed at people in general.
blah blah blah
Ranting about cigarettes like a pig.
blah blah blah
My music is better than yours because no one else likes it.
blah blah blah
Society *****
blah blah blah
Quotes from pop-punk songs.
blah blah blah
Depressed ramblings.
blah blah blah
*****
blah blah blah
Love *****
You *****
I ****
******* *****
blah blah blah blah...
Aug 8, 2012
Aug 8, 2012 at 2:10 AM UTC
I’m curious about your experience of time. Do you feel like life is moving really quickly? Is your music one way to sort of turn it over and reflect on it?
WILLOW SMITH: I mean, time for me, I can make it go slow or fast, however I please, and that’s how I know it doesn’t exist.
JADEN SMITH: It’s proven that how time moves for you depends on where you are in the universe. It’s relative to beings and other places. But on the level of being here on earth, if you are aware in a moment, one second can last a year. And if you are unaware, your whole childhood, your whole life can pass by in six seconds. But it’s also such a thing that you can get lost in.
How have you gotten better?
WILLOW SMITH: Caring less what everybody else thinks, but also caring less and less about what your own mind thinks, because what your own mind thinks, sometimes, is the thing that makes you sad.
JADEN SMITH: Exactly. Because your mind has a duality to it. So when one thought goes into your mind, it’s not just one thought, it has to bounce off both hemispheres of the brain. When you’re thinking about something happy, you’re thinking about something sad. When you think about an apple, you also think about the opposite of an apple. It’s a tool for understanding mathematics and things with two separate realities. But for creativity: That comes from a place of oneness. That’s not a duality consciousness. And you can’t listen to your mind in those times — it’ll tell you what you think and also what other people think.
WILLOW SMITH: And then you think about what you think, which is very dangerous.
Do you think of your new music as a continuation of your past work?
JADEN SMITH: That’s another thing: What’s your job, what’s your career? Nah, I am. I’m going to imprint myself on everything in this world.
What are the things worth having?
WILLOW SMITH: A canvas. Paint. A microphone.
JADEN SMITH: Anything that you can shock somebody with. The only way to change something is to shock it. If you want your muscles to grow, you have to shock them. If you want society to change, you have to shock them.
WILLOW SMITH: That’s what art is, shocking people. Sometimes shocking yourself.
So is the hardest education the unlearning of things?
WILLOW SMITH: Yes, basically, but the crazy thing is it doesn’t have to be like that.
JADEN SMITH: Here’s the deal: School is not authentic because it ends. It’s not true, it’s not real. Our learning will never end. The school that we go to every single morning, we will continue to go to.
WILLOW SMITH: Forever, ‘til the day that we’re in our bed.
JADEN SMITH: Kids who go to normal school are so teenagery, so angsty.
WILLOW SMITH: They never want to do anything, they’re so tired.
WILLOW SMITH: I went to school for one year. It was the best experience but the worst experience. The best experience because I was, like, “Oh, now I know why kids are so depressed.” But it was the worst experience because I was depressed.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 7:51 AM UTC
Ugh, humidity
Pressing in
Suffocating
Sticking to everything
To you and me but not us, together
This is not the good kind of sticking
of skin on skin, nervous sweaty palm in nervous sweaty palm.
This is the kind that just makes life uncomfortable
and unpleasant
But at least God has thought this through
and gave us the rain
to go with it
Rain is beautiful
Intoxicating
Purifying
I want to get drenched.
Soaked.
I want to be free
Rain is free.
Ha, I'm not a poet, or a writer
I'm just an overdramatic hormonal angsty teenage girl
that likes to put down her feelings in her phone notes
And hopes that someone will read and understand
but at the same time
wants to remain
unknown.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 2:39 PM UTC