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

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.

The yellow aura
spiraled my night elf hunter avatar
as the DUN-DUMM
of false accommplishment
incited my addiction to
instant gratification.

I had just Leveled up.

The quest giver
gave me a choice

****** boots
Or
a less ****** Dagger

I took the ****** boots
because
**** the system
they looked cooler.

I was going to stomp cave spiders anyway,
what's the point of relinquishing
looking **** fine.
for an extra Attack Point?

****** Boots.

****** boots ALL Day long.

A naked human avatar
dances
facing a naked gnome
Named: "Buzz Lightyear"
He is Also dancing,
at crotch height.

This is Typical starting zone
foolery

I stayed up
watching Toonami all night
Naruto, Bleech, Inuyasha.
I could tell the sun came up
not because there was a window in my Kitchen,
there wasn't.

Tom and Jerry came on.
everyone knows
when Tom and Jerry came on
you were no longer pulling an
"all nighter."
You're pulling a
"Drink enough Soda
to get through the rest
of the day-er"

My entire diet
these past two days
has consisted of Gushers & Vault
because
Clearly Coca-Cola is superior
to Pepsi.

Therefore, Vault
was superior to Mountain Dew.
Which is the typical choice drink
of my internet brethren.

I don't know why I dyed my hair black nobody online could see it
But it made me feel
more
like my Night Elf Avatar

I wanted long white hair
I realized that's impossible
in 6th grade
So I Bought & Settled for Black
At least I could be like
"L" from death note,
Long sleeve white shirt, jeans
with no shoes.

I could also be
any other black-haired charecter
From any other angsty Anime
Because of course I loved angsty Anime
Because I held my cell phone like "L"
From Death Note.

I always dreamed
of this singing venus fly trap.

A Fuzzy Memory with a lost Origin
I realized seven years later
the Singing venus flytrap in my head
was AUDREY 2
from Little Shop Of Horrors.

Netflix reunited us in College
Audrey 2 finally Serenaded Me.
I listened with Voyeuristic Intentions
As memory saprilings grew
into the full songs
relieving the void in my soul
Lingering for a Man to be attacked
by a singing venus fly trap
in his own kitchen.

But only once,
Because I firmly beleived
movies should only be seen once
until I stopped
dyeing my hair black.
Despite watching Space jam
more times than any kid born in 1995 Should have
but still
all the kids born in 1995
watched space jam
more than any of them should have
because they were born in 1995.

Apparently
when I first saw little shop of horrors
it aired just before osmosis jones.

I love osmosis jones
almost as much as I love
Buzz lightyear, of Star Command

Buzz lightyears robot companion XR
reminded me of Cyberchase
and to this day Cyberchase
is the best show to watch
when you have no idea
who Gilbert Godfrey is.

Zoombinis is better
than oregon trail.
and also better
than Tom and Jerry.
but not better
than leveling my night elf Hunter.
Named:
"FEED ME A PIZZA!"

I think I spent more time
getting my Zoombinis
to look just right
then I Spent deciding
what outfit to wear

Routine
Black striped Hoodie
Unwashed and worn every day
Grey skulls all over it, because
of course it had grey skulls all over it.
Black pants.
Black socks
No actually, THESE black socks.
Okay, got gushers
and my Coca-Cola.

I now take as much time
to choose my outfit as
designing the perfect Zoombini.
however I have yet to replace
my legs
With
a skateboard.

I think that every grade before sixth grade is fourth grade
and 6th grade is basically 7th grade
which is to say my memory skips them both
to remember ending eighth grade

I miss being cool on the Internet
Whilst lame and forgotten in real life.

like black sock
wasn't quite as good
as that other Black sock.

I wanna go back.
To the seperation
Of who we pretend to be
Vs. who we actually are.
To be dramatic again.
incomparable.

An ideal self on the internet
Who is obviouslly not the real you
is decades more comforting
than Some Characatureized
Facebook Profile.

Today I was offered a choice

Work A minimum wage job
or
continue my useless college degree.

I decided to write a poem, because
**** the system.
If I am to Decide where to respawn from
Let it be poetry.

There is no spiraling Yellow aura
or DUN-DUMM

Sometimes there is snapping though.
Or a lost memory
of A singing venus Fly Trap.

I am a pretend person.
An avatar
just now, I have skin.
You can touch me
I breath without a Macro
or even pressing any keys.

I cannot bring myself to
Watch Space Jam again.
I can Identify Gilbert Godfrey's voice.
I will buy my children zoombinis
And it will collect dust
When all they want
Is to watch the fifth Toy Story movie
Way more than any kid born in 2020 should.
And all the kids born in 2020
Will Watch the fifth Toy Story Movie
Way more than they should
because they
will have been born
in 2020.

And I will rant
about the Missing LGM
and Warp Darkmatter
betraying Buzz Lightyear
By joining Evil Emperor Zurg
So Buzz was forced
to get three new Partners
Princess Mira Nova
Audrey 2
and Osmosis Jones.
because I will have Forgotten
Booster & XR.
Because Booster and XR
Never made a ******* Facebook Profile.

Nobody exists anymore.
We are all represented by our avatars
holding ourselfs up to the standards
of our photoshopped reflections

Being disappointed and overwhelmed

I Take pills to forget that I am
Acting Like myself
but can't find any evidence of Existing.
Besides these memories
of who i used to be.

I want my internet persona
to be nothing like me
So that I may focus on myself
in the real world coherently.

I want thick black lines
dividing mental Venn diagrams

I want Tom and Jerry
To signal me
That it is morning, again.

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

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.

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

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 ******* to your two timing face instead of via text message.

*******, again and again and again.

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.

Darling,
tell me of the times
you've watched the moon slip into the pavement.
Tell me how you cry every time spring rolls around.
Help me up this hill,
For I am tired of this teenage angsty poetry.

Angst angst angst angst angst;
Angsty Angsty angst;
******* people, ****.

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.

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.

How Dare You Tell Me - What Is Literature?
When I, waking pre-8:25 alarm, from some engulfing dream
Roll out of bed, read poetry when the day has hardly dawned
The wind surges through the crack in everything
Through my window, leaning and weeping
Screaming and tearing at me in Greys
Grays I've neglected in favour of Drakes
Socialising, absorbing this post-everything
Hearing echoes of Alex Turner
Soulful Amy drowned in Wine
The Magic Mushroom experiments of my early years
My late teens, which should have come earlier
Forced to grow fast to the sounds of Lennon and Kendrick

We live in a generation of not being in love, and not being together

When I first heard 'good kid, m.A.A.d city' I was still young
Because who told me what to expect?
Who told me but the Mothers and Teachers of the 80s?
The Bleeding Hearts and Artists make their stand
So Far Gone, falling free from the wall, unhinged
Leap of faith, like washing up the first cup in a student kitchen
Lemon drizzle flow and Drizzy seeping through every artery
A modern century, reaching 21 in 21

But back to the scene set to the Ice Age
Liverpool is my hometown,
London is frozen in memory, the pressure has us crash together
Our minds blend like time, concepts, musical genres
'Blurred Lines' - Feminist uproar defines this '4th' Wave
3rd Eye: We are living in the Future, in ignorance of the present
We are Generation Y, or Z, or just a generation of terrorists
Sages, Mystics, Heroes...

Sweeping winds through my window on a dreary morn
I read 45 pages of poetry because I feel like it,
Not because I have a seminar
University's red bricks fading away for me now
I'm just staring at a man's soul,
Attaching myself, this is why I write
I reach for the ceiling, in this small room
Yawning, the stretch of a new day
Going for gold (the sun, the stars)
Going for breakfast, alone downstairs with Paul Farley

As I stretch I look out the window
See four attractive, modern girls walking
(Probably to lectures, though it seems amidst the hour)
I can lecture too, with my arrogant, contemporary voice
I think - if they see me I will smile and wave, wink maybe
(Perhaps not, I am a feminist after all...is this ironic?)
These are products of angsty teen poem generators
They don't look, but I feel it may as well have happened
(I am in such a good mood I would smile at myself)

This generation seems to lounge in apathy
Girls in beanie hats, tripping off Raider **** (RVIDXR KLVN?)
Obey Snap Backs giving me Flash backs
I wish it was the 60s, I wish I could be happy
Trap is the new Rock and Roll, Prog-Rap is coming, sit tight
(Was this always about hip hop, girls etc?)
Am I as readable as Holden Caulfield?
Reading about John Lennon drinking Milk
I felt like Sylvia Plath on 10th February 1963
Well, I feel like Lennon on 11th February 1963
Am I even an '13 Ye?
Screaming 'R.I.P STEEZ', or 'Twist and Shout'
How far have we come now..?
When will we redefine 'Post-Modernism'
Or give this era a Literary title
Like PBR&B; or Indie
Like Blues or Jazz
Like the wind that rushes through my window and my follow up 9:45 alarm telling me I need to set off

She stated the obvious
while I puffed on my cigarette
"You know smoking kills?"
"Yeah, want to die?"
I held out my stoge
"I like life"
"How do you know
you don't like death
if you've never tried it?"
She stayed
silent

why am i like this?
how do i scare everyone away?
i am your biggest fear, your phobia, the monster on the streets.
i paint my claws that i only ever hurt myself with.
my hair is a nest where nightmares hatch, & the mascara dries on my cheeks.
these eyes find the flaws, but they also see the scars and weep.
what? don’t you want to kiss me?  
or are my chapped lips too angsty?
do they say “crazy *itch” at you?  
do my endless questions also itch at your skin?
at least your skin seems comfortable.
but how dare i make this all about me, when we all go through the same.
right?

wrong.
because i am your drama queen.
i declare a set of rules, i keep records on what you say,
i write letters to your name & invest in you each day.
each day i put on my armour & climb the watch tower.
i see you on your horse.  
you are not the knight.  
but you shine regardless.
you earn the trust for you to enter the iron gates.
once you are in, the damage is done.  
it just takes your leave for me to feel the sword.
what hurts is that i tripped over it.  
my vulnerabilities were out  
in the open.
& you accidentally hurt me.
this, humans can’t promise not to do.

i am an addict.
i write my insecurities & my inabilities down,  
& my pride goes into poetry.
i do nothing about anything.
& i can’t.  
stop.
some would say it’s pathetic,  
how one can be so overwhelmed by the underwhelming,
how one can be so distraught by the daily doses of life.
if i accept it then i have given up my responsibility.
if i ignore it then it silently damages me & my capability.
if i address it i am holding on & i deny my viability.
whatever i do, it has won,  
& it has left me with nothing.

but that’s what a loser does.

sometimes i feel my feelings feel too much.
sometimes nothing makes sense.
sometimes it feels normal that nothing feels okay.
but that’s okay.
sometimes i stress about stressing about stress.
sometimes i hate my irrational abnormality.
sometimes i cry about my weakness.
but that has to be okay.

yes.
there isn’t a definitive answer to my questions.
there seems to be more struggles than strengths.
there isn’t a clear path, or a silver platter with a cure for me.
my clothes cover my cares like sugar coats the pills i swallow.
The pill being _.
but i make a choice.
a lot of the time it seems i don’t have one.
but i do.
sometimes i am influenced to make it,
but i do.
i do.
i always do.

always.

doctors and scientists are trying to find
the causes, effects, & answers.
i sleep & wait.
but instead we should be
talking
listening
trying
supporting
helping
fighting
& never ever letting go.

even if they prove it is part of my genetic makeup
i will wake up,
i will get up,
i will make up,
i will stay up,
&
i will help myself,
help others help myself,
help others help themselves,
& help others help others.
i will highlight my temples with wisdom & peace.
i will shadow my eyes with beauty & light.
i will paint my lips with humility & kindness.  

my genetics will not make up whether i give up or not.
they will not make up my mind,
or make up someone else’s.
my genetics are not choosing if i live or not.
suicide is not a choice.
suicide is not make-up.
suicide is not a gene.

& suicide  
will not take part  
in my genetic makeup.

Somewhere along the line
I lost control of the handle bars
It probably has something to do
with my Parents getting divorced
so even my problems
are teenage cliches
so i try my best not to come across
as some angsty kid
who posts angsty poems
about all of their angst,
so I bottle it up
behind a lock and key mouth
but It always seeps out
in a look I give a stranger
when I feel as If I need to move
at 1 million miles an hour
but my feet are cemented to ground

I never decided to write poems
to be perfectly honest
I always thought of poetry
as being for girls
ignorant?
yes,
but I never claimed to know jack
about anything
but I picked up a pen
hoping to sew the pieces of my broken heart together
and that first poem just wrote itself
it was like something out of this world
like crazies who babble in tongues at church
I loved it
but It isn't enough
I'm bombing down a steep hill
on a beat up ten speed
screaming in terror
screaming in excitement
"Look Ma, no hands"

*******, you *******
******* for being ****** up and not being able to be fixed
and not being able to fix yourself
******* for representing all the unhealthy relationships in my life
(read: ALL the relationships in my life)
******* for your two-facedness, for the things that were ****** up then,
for the things that are ****** up now and for
you pretending that it isn’t this way
pretending to be holding the truth
be speaking the truth
be slurring the truth
you are unknowing of the truth
I am not knowing of what’s true
and good,
but you are not it.

So leave, leave, leave, and take her with you,
and pretend as if you have me in your heart
but forget me. Please don’t speak to me.
And don’t cry to me.

And at some point, eat. And at some point, sleep.
Between the meaningless bouts of *******, *******, *******,
and pretending to be finding the things
you find meaningful
You haven’t thought about them in a while, have you

I’m angry at you and I’m angrier at myself
But at least I’m proud of myself
Because whatever hurts me now makes me grow
I can handle being alone and learn independence, and it will
be my weapon against you and everyone like you.

I don’t love you. I don’t know what that kind of love is and I hope to not find it for a while.

Gigi Hadid wore pearls, a t-shirt and jeans to Paris fashion week. So, our (Lisa, Leeza and my) theme for this New Year’s Eve is “Jeans and pearls.” To be accurate, Gigi’s distressed, slouchy bottom, boyfriend jeans were embroidered with pearls - the pearls weren’t worn as a necklace - but Lisa and I think anything involving embroidery is a trailer-park trend - so we’ll be wearing strings of pearls. If Karen (Lisa and Leeza’s mom) lets us, that is.

Karen has four strings of Tiffany pearls - called Essential, Ziegfeld, Akoya and South Sea Noble. They’re all 16-inch, single strand strings (which we all prefer) and they range in value from $600 (the Akoya) to the expensive (South Sea Noble) string - that she won’t lend anyone. The good news is, if anyone is thinking of buying me a string of pearls, I can’t tell the difference between the cheap string and the expensive string.

Leeza (Lisa’s 13-year-old sister) wants to be included in EVERYTHING this year, which is funny because last year she either attacked us or completely ignored us. This year, Leeza has a thirteen-year-old’s razor-sharp instincts and relentless curiosity.

As we’re Planning New Year’s Eve, Ethan Bortnick’s song, “Engraving” was playing. It’s a crazy song with middle-school, EMO, angsty vibes. One of the lines of the song is “strip for me”. As the song ends, Leeza suddenly asks us, “Have you two ever been to a *******?”
“No”, I answered.
Lisa said, “Once.”
“What?!” I asked.
“Really?” Leeza gasped, “Spill!” She demanded.
“This has random context,” Lisa begins, “I’ve been inside a ******* once in my life.”
Leeza and I tittered nervously. “I’m scared,” Leeza said, as an aside, grinning and rubbing her hands on her knees, clearly more delighted than scared.
“I was attending a middle school, Model UN conference, at Brown University,” Lisa continued, “and they took all the kids to a ******* for their model UN social.”
I gasped and blurted “There’s NO way this happened.”
“Yes,” Lisa insisted, “you can ask my mom.” she said, with a serious look, “And, and obviously, it was rented out for the night, but they didn’t, like, think to take away any of the normal features. There weren’t any strippers, but they didn’t take the poles down and they didn’t turn off the multiple TV screens on all the walls that were playing their normal rotating video content.”
“Wow,” I said, with my hand over my mouth. Meanwhile, Leeza was chortling like a mad woman and rocking back and forth.
“Everyone walked in,” Lisa went on, “and it was just middle schoolers, thirteen years old. There were pictures of the dancers on the poles, and our history teacher came in, and freaked OUT, saying, “Oh, no, No, NO!” Because it was a school event, we had taken school buses there, it was a boondoggle. They turned us all around and hustled us out of there.”
Leeza had stood up and was twirling with glee. Middle schoolers live for chaos.
“Taken out of context,” I said, “It was crazy you went to a ******* in middle school.”
“It was a jump scare, for sure,” Lisa confirmed, “we went from one vibe, a school field trip, to a *******.”

Anyway, for New Year’s, a lot is still up in the air - undecided - but we’re determined that we want to have a blast. We’re young and we want to support bad ***** energy (BBE).
“Oh, I have a BBE song!” Lisa squeals, “Mafiosa!” (by Nathy Peluso) She names it as it begins playing.

The songs in Spanish and when it ended, I’d looked up the lyrics because my 2 years of Spanish weren’t good enough. I tell Leeza the lyrics go: “Let the bad men fear me, when I arrive in my car - they speed off.”
“Yes!” Lisa Laughs, “We don’t drive - but, YES!”
“Emotionally,” I say, laughing too. “But verse two asks the great question, “What the frack is wrong with men when it comes to women?”
“It’s,” Lisa started, looking up and searching for words, “SUCH a timeless question.”
“Why’d you pick that song?” Leeza asked.
Lisa chuckled,” Because you don’t get more BBE than a female Mafiosa killer.”

Update: Karen agreed that as long as Charles is with us (and really, when isn’t he with us?), we can borrow the three inexpensive pearl strings (worth about 5k). So, I’ll be wearing the Akoya pearls, an Anna Molinari white, basic, cotton-shirt, washed denim cropped jeans with white bridal flats and Lisa and Leeza will wear their own, white tops, jeans, flats and pearls and we’ll be on-theme.

Happy New Year’s Everyone!

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

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 ***-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.

On Monday
you are sponges
Squeezed empty by
Pokemon tournaments and
Supernatural Watchathons

On Wednesday
you are dictionaries
lexicons of hyperbolic histrionics
thesauri of sturm and drang and
angsty angsty goodness

But Friday
you are IMDB
airbenders and Fassbender and
light bending across the sails
of a ship bound for the

unreal
implausible
impossible
unnatural
illogical

while Monday
you are rabid
like word-eating mongrels

and Wednesday
you are 1930's radios
spewing never-before-heard myths and mysteries

but Friday
you are careening
between the moons of Jupiter

ungrounded
unfettered
untethered
unrealistic
imaginative­

but Friday
you are
gone gone gone gone

gone

I really like pills and cigarettes and things that can **** me but haven't yet. I really like how fast it's draining my life but I really just want it to speed up. I really like when I get so mad that I can't feel because feelings can genuinely hurt. I take away that hurt with 16 to my head and filled ashtrays that scream teen angst.

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;
“******* 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...

Sitting in class
In front of the blank white math test I was in the process of failing
That I had skipped first period to study for
And instead just smoked my final final cigarette
I had a grand realization
I'm an idiot
I don't know how I hadn't realized it before
Between breaking my new phone to try and prove to my friends it was unbreakable
And sitting on my roof cardboard wings duck taped to my arms
With plastic shopping bag parachutes strung about my neck
Or when I asked I girl I hardly knew to a dance I hardly wanted to go to
Or at the dance, when I ditched her to laugh at the kid barfing in a stall
From the *** cookie he had just eaten
Honest mistake, I did it my first time, too
Eating acid turned out fine, though
Mushrooms, almost made me **** downtown
But hey, Shiva's in the walls
I love an audience
And I know they love my cusses
Once I put my arm around the wrong date
No just kidding,

I don't date

On vacation, I got stabbed between my small toe and the next
With a pencil
Now I'm afraid of wearing flip flops
I biked over the same patch of broken glass in the street
Three days in a row before I finally got a flat
I put duct tape on the frame of my new bike,
It looked cool,
And cutting it off with a kitchen knife
I sliced my wrist and nicked a tendon
Shot myself in the thigh with a BB gun
To prove it didn't hurt to people that didn't care
Twice
Shot my neighbor, too
I told her parents it was an accident
Statistically plausible,
but not this time
Got in a fight with my best friend
And made a Facebook status about how boring it was being suspended
Broke a sprinkler when I was bored
Blamed it on raccoons
It didn't work, the neighbors had caught on to me
Love poems don't come easy
Which is weird,
They're always better when no one loves you back
So I have a surplus
And apparently they say,
Giving that stuff away for free
Is a bit of a crime
Like trying not to rip my already ripped pants
or
Putting a sticker on my cello I couldn't peel off
Climbing over barbed wire to get high
by the octopus tree
I should of checked the penal code
Hiking at night is a crime
Ranger D. Heimer wanted me to tell you
It's okay, he's an idiot, too
September is not the eighth month
The handwriting on the citation isn't half bad, though
In the last three months,
I've had four flats on my bike
I haven't learned yet
The wheel still sitting in the hallway
I lost the repair kit
You think it it would of sunk in before
I failed my fifth math test in a row
I went to a party,
And I didn't do blow
Because I was tripping too hard
The white line looked too weird,
And my nose was still burning from the last line.
I dropped my ipod in the toilet
Then I dropped my dad's, too
Talked to gutter punks
(that's not the stupid part)
And shared a pipe with the sickest of the trio
Yeah, I'm sick now
Got angry at my mom,
But of course, I'm an angsty teen,
Decided to bike to the top of the greatest little hill around
And gave up three fourths of the way there
At least I gave one of my friends the chance to see me in that state,
His house was on the way,
And they say that bliss comes in two ways,
In ignorance or in enlightenment
That's too many choices for me
So instead I elected myself martyr
And grew my hair out to look like Jesus Christ
But now I just look like Charles Manson
I was going to do no-shave November
But I started too early
And ended even earlier
And that was before I realized I couldn't grow a beard
Fool me once, shame on you
Fool me twice, shame on me
Fool me thrice, and the fourths for free,
I make my own omens,
Then happily misread them.
So it might be starting to sink in,
But I don't think it matters much
Being stupid is a **** good time
Next Saturday, you're all invited.

It’s funny how despite different tastes
we all have a taste for music
my life has never felt complete
with a soundtrack. A beat
as a kid I was told not to fidget
told to just sit still
but my person was anything but chill
I have always had a thing for rhythm
I felt it in the way people speak
the way a husband sneaks around
keeping his wife trapped and meak
whether it is weak or strong
I could always hear that drumming song
It started with a rap song I heard
Hi My Name Is by eminem
but then again it had always been with me
it’s the reason time scares me
because in the beating tick of those two drum sticks
I could see the sound of life wasted
and it made me want to get wasted
black out drunk at fatal altitudes
when I was in middle school
we were angry
and disrespectfully spiteful
so we rocked long socks and listened to punk rock
then It was about being a bad guy
a real force not to be reckoned with
so we wore black Tshirts depicting violent scenes
and joined the screaming heavy metal mosh pit
a place to fit for all the kids who didn’t anywhere else
as I got older I put the heavy metal on the shelf
if I’m being honest it was all just a little silly
angsty teens with lofty dreams which they told us
were unattainable so we went out looking for cheap thrills
rather than develop any marketable skills
The first time I felt marketable
it gave me chills
The National in Richmond Virginia
an old theatre
converted into a sanctuary for the sanctimonious masses
to forget everything they learned in their classes
a place where kicked *****
wasn’t always a bad thing
I remember I was there
in the tenth grade
to see the Atmosphere show
because the lead singer - Slug
was my hero
his words enveloped me in a bear hug
which said you’re doing just fine kid
and in that crowd of tattoos and hipsters
and the ghetto kids wearing chips on their shoulders
I was high
but not on drugs
I was high on expressionism and the loftiness of ideas
The men behind the microphone
wearing a costume of stage lighting and swaggering egos
made me feel at home
for the first time in a while
they said things like God Loves Ugly
and Every Day Can’t be the Best Day
and the DJ’s worked the turntables
like a good lover brings their partner to ******
I didn’t know anybody else at the show
but don’t think for a minute that I was alone
we were all connected as brothers by bond and spilled blood
of our heros who were cut short before they could say the things
which we all needed to hear
We respect the story tellers
because it is how we come to terms with tougher aspects of life
and I was flying high on the dreams of kids just like me
saluting the scarred, worn, souls who had made it
who were making the path that we would one day walk
with the cut of their jive and the strength of their talk
***** of the walk
chalked outlines of the end of loneliness
They called us hop heads
and we’d reply
you’re ******* right we are
hip hop didn’t save my life
it just stopped me from taking me
for granted

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.

SO you decided to read my rant.
So why am I writing a rant?
Because I'm an angsty teenager, but my life is good so I'll write a semi-anonymous poem and maybe if someone reads it I'll think I matter or that I'm not that alone.
The funny thing is, I rarely read the poetry of others, but I expect others to read mine.
I have an entire book that few will read and yet I expect to get somewhere in life.
But I have food and good grades and loving friends and a girlfriend, so my life is good.
My life is good, but good leaves no room for the future.
I am afraid that I can't go on like this and one day it will all crash down on me.  
I don't want to be a drama queen, but I don't want to hole myself up.
I feel these extremes and try to even them out.
I don't want to be like my mother.
My mother is in my ear complaining about all that I do and though I'm afraid that those I love will leave me, I'm afraid she never will.
She's moving with me to the state in which the college that she so optimistically says will accept me is situated.
I'm afraid I'll never have a healthy relationship or know how to function.
I'm afraid of having no family, but I don't know how a good family works.
She is so much of me I don't know which of our feelings I feel.
I don't know what of me is real.
I try to stay down to earth but she sends me reeling and yet brings me down to where I belong.
I'm an all or nothing girl, but that's a bad habit I learned from my mother who screams for milk at mild spice and cries hysterically over people she claims to hate.
I try to be my own person, but as an only child, my companion has always been my own mind which means I became too much of the world around me, and thus not enough of an original person.
I feel that even the one thing I've always been praised for (my writing, and thus my mind,) has only been praised to fill the awkward silences after an unimportant person tries too hard.
I debated about not writing this because I was afraid that I write too often and that it amounts to too little.  
I always use that adjective about myself: "too."  I've said before though that in my case it should be said as "tew" as in "too much of that which is ew" and then I think of all that I am not, but rather, "nawt" (not enough of that which makes people say "aw")
I'm an all or nothing girl but I try to live in the middle grounds.  
I like something or I don't but I don't obsess.
I know where I want to be in life and will fight tooth and nail to get there, but I fear I may end my life if I am unable.
The funny thing is I don't seek fame, or riches, I just want something that wouldn't be so **** out of reach if I wasn't who I am.
I just want to get my phd in veterinary medicine and marry a wonderful girl and live without too many bills piling up.
But I still have trouble spelling veterinary even though I'm almost a straight A student but almost straight A isn't good enough to pay for my education.
Because I'm too white, not quite poor enough, not quite skilled enough, not noticeable enough.  
I'm just close enough to the norm that people expect I fit in somewhere so they leave me all behind, leaving me with nowhere to fit in.
They all think someone else will help me until no one does.
So I search for the people whom I can make feel special and I throw myself at them praying to feel like I belong, but it never quite feels real.
I want to crack into people and find whats real about them, show them all of my all too real flaws, but inside their shells are likable things, and I am like tamarind: too sweet, in need of salt and spice, and strange to harvest for flesh.  I could be useful, but there's always something not quite right.
I know everything I do is not quite right and sooner or later someone will pull the plug.  
And leave me.
And I'll be left alone, writing or reading or crying or sleeping.
I wanted to record my voice saying this, but I knew that people would be even less likely to notice my words then.  
I'm not the person whose writing wins awards, I'm not the plucky student whose hard work earns scholarships.
I fall between the cracks because I'm too good to deserve pity and not good enough to deserve praise.
I tried to draw to spare you all from this stupid rant but though I liked the shape of a few lines, they meant nothing.
Maybe that's my problem, that I seek meaning in everything.
That I can't make anything of meaning.
I don't know why anyone bothers with me.
I feel like they're lying to me.
I'm nobody.
I'm an all or nothing girl, but I'm either too much or not enough and that means I'm in between.
I am the or in either or, in yes or no, in succeed or fail.  
I would be happy with that if it meant that I could just get the few things I want in life, but even that is too much to ask for someone who's not eloquent enough, not charismatic enough, not good enough to get there.
I know this feeling won't stay, because I'll bounce back to the opposite extreme of loving life.
I'm an all or nothing girl and even though I know in a lot of ways I have it all, right now, I'm feeling nothing.
And I'm afraid these feelings won't leave me.

I know this doesn't get me any promises of forgiveness, and I know how much things have been a mess lately and I refused to deal with it. But there are things I should have said instead of counter-arguing and berating you.

I've forgotten to tell you how I've been so excited to learn coding because I like to think it gets me a little closer to you, maybe even lets me understand you a bit more.

I've forgotten to tell you how though I have trouble sleeping having you beside me really comforts me, and though its beyond creepy I'll look at you to feel better.

I've forgotten to tell you how I love going to the movies with you, and hearing you get excited and involved in the story, and its like you forget all your school troubles for awhile, something I seem to have forgotten to do.

I've forgotten to tell you how I'm stupidly afraid to ask you to do things, like kiss you til we're dizzy, giggle til our cheeks hurt, or have really good *** (thought about that a lot today, but I was too much of a ******* to say something).

I've forgotten to tell you that you light up my day, and though I'm a moody ******* even just being around you helps. I know I don't act like it, but it does, so I need to get some ***** and just ask you on a date like a middle schooler and get that out of the way.

I've forgotten to tell you how I started a new novel, and that my mood diary has been going up lately in moods. That I was really hoping that at least my time with you next week won't be so bad.

I've forgotten to tell you that I want us to play mass effect, even if it means I'll swoon over Garrus half the time. I promise all my kisses are reserved by you.

I've forgotten to tell you how worried I've been for you, about your friends being more distant. I've been trying to just let you do whatever, at my own expense. Alone time is great (especially for these poems and homework and figuring out that new novel) but I should have been more open about it. Communication is key, especially for us, and I should have been more open about things.

I've forgotten to tell you how afraid I've been of being lost without you after next fall, but I just need to get my ***** in place and enjoy my time with you. Its silly to ruin time you have for some separation in the future.

I've forgotten to tell you that you look so **** sometimes, but I don't want to bother you because I know school worries you. And I know that goes with the bad communication stuff again, and I need to get my **** together, because I know you wouldn't mind a **** time or two.

I've forgotten to tell you that I really love horror movies, especially bad ones, and I really love Photoshop, and I really love tech at the moment, and I really love Diablo 3, and I really love spending time with you and yes I agree alone time is good and I shouldn't get angsty at bad times and make you think I never want you alone. I need to get my afraid bar to cool its rollers.(PS that's my new favorite phrase) You are my favorite person and I should and want to tell you everything. I need to get this together.

I've forgotten to tell you I've been trying to lose weight again, less because I hate myself and more because I want to look hotter for you, and have been eating less sweets and less food in general.

I've forgotten to tell you I want to learn to make paper cranes and watch gargoyles and be more in-tune with you. I'll watch Super Troopers, I'll even watch Master in Disguise, if you truly want to. I can't just say no to everything you want to do together. Why? Because if I always say no to together things, you'll start always doing them alone.

I've forgotten to tell you that your scruff is adorable and its kinda hot you're a little taller and your hair is beautiful. That I love goofiness and tickles and nose kisses and **** grabs and making you smile. I know I've messed things up but I want to all I can in my power to get it together, because you are special. You once told me you were like a shooting star and hard to catch and I rolled my eyes, but you are. I love you and have never met someone like you before.

I've forgotten to share my stories and my life and all the things that made you love me and even me love me, and I'm going to fix that. I will not sit by and let you forget me.

One last thing.

I've forgotten to tell you I love you oodles, and that will never change.

my heart doesn't work
this isn't an angsty teenage metaphor
it leaks
and there is a depression in my heartbeat
my veins are weak

my heart has four chambers like four quarters of my lineage
and one half is made of shame
my grandfather unknowingly instilled in me
with the pain
carried in her pelvis
my weak veins are built of his DNA
so much of my body is made up of shame
I wonder if he'd even known her name

my heart doesn't work
this isn't an angsty teenage metaphor
I feel more than anyone I've met before
my core aches with a pain that isn't even mine
I carry shame
throw it like pebbles out to sea
so it'll skip over my son
when he looks up at me
his heartbeat will be lively and carry our name
there will be no leakage in his veins
and when I hold him
we will not know any shame