"delinquents" poems
You were sitting in my golden room
You threw my things off their perches
and proceeded to wall on my antique bed.
My bible was pretending to lay silent on the floor.
Oppression wasn’t in the Quran on my bed but the 2000 Red Dodge Ram
Drove you away.
Your parents deemed
my short haircut
a symbol of homosexuality.
They placed my name among the delinquents.
You would always rock your skinny jeans.
I know you were wearing them when you tried to slit your own wrists.
You found things to live for when you found me.
We shed our pants, camped out on my battered couch, and watched Rocky Horror.
I’ll never understand;
you can have love affairs with Panic!At the Disco and Carried Underwood.
You drug me to Jarritos Mexican Soda
And hugged the stranger in the TWLOHA t-shirt.
You texted me “Goodnight, seep tight, don’t let the zombies bite” when you finished my “No mas pantalones” notice.
We went to Sweet CeCe’s to celebrate getting fired from your therapist.
I know you’re okay
the same way you quoted John Green in my room that day
and I still miss you.
Keep your smiles and your paints.
we’ll be 18 one day.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 5:17 PM UTC
River bamboo arrayed in lace tiers
consoles the birdbath on its loss of robins
Intemperate August staggers in liquored air
of wavery heat and layered sighs
Leaves relinquish their rush
toward this “ripe on time”
Blackberry brambles have ceased to reach
now bow to ponder their plunder
while petunias, those bold delinquents!
bloom as if the frost’s lethal cling
were some myth
the antique roses had made up
Bud, bloom, revive!
See the generation of the bee!
Bud, bloom, survive—
to do it all again
for the single sake...
of treasuring beginning in the end...
Her bicycle, my geranium
have found eternity together
on the sun spattered patio
She—
opens the screen door
as I—
climb the morning stairs
She—
squints smiles amongst sleepy freckles
who has not brushed her hair
in a late August moment of not caring
And I know it will all happen anyway
no matter what I do....
Aug 26, 2017
Aug 26, 2017 at 12:43 PM UTC
caveat! —bursting out as the fuse fetters away
wafting t'ward oil spills, tranquilized guns
with pace maker minds
and time to ****
sickle celled, graving shores
plead to crawl underground
through cascading bile and sedatives
that sift through these negatives
like bangled thieves
who crawl on broken knees
and lie idle under haunted bridges.
bouldered bones intertwine
or veins cut along a dotted line
caveat! cries the sayer's sooth,
for he says it scours and devours—
the slinking nightmare sleuth.
the tar is interrupted in carved equinoxes
soak in the crippled toxins
as the air becomes as thick as theophany
and tharm like grease in blood that take me in,
through ash and mud and
all the spider webs caving in
like delicate gorges forges beneath
nightmare sleuth reaching zenith
caveat, silhouettes
stretched out like oil in water
and this silicon tomb can hold me no longer
for i must break out before i am a goner
because it's a mistake that i'll never shake
your face turns opaque
and there was nothing in your eyes
but dripping flesh
wring out all your words for me
your jeers and your juries
but go cling to your crutch
your kings and your qualms
and the church that burns
in its hallow vacancy
for none can resist the urge
that thieves its delinquents from catatonic catacombs
and quagmire junctions
where the swamp will **** you in
and festering sweat sticks like guilt to your skin
and hell is a nightclub where every loss is a life
and heaven's a daydream with your neck to the knife
it needs no rhyme or reason
and every slip of your broken lip
just lose your grip and give in to the treason
would you rather burn at the stake
than suffer your cement heart break
with no reason or rhyme
it's just the weight of the season
backdrop collapse
railroads unfolding
and like a cell storm the train
is coming your way
and slinks away like a nightmare sleuth
it just takes one swipe of the claw
or one bite of the tooth
and it drags you in
feel the sidewalk sleeping
and the blinking lights creeping
above the overpass
and the cold wind reeling--
it'll be your last.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 6:36 PM UTC
Parents shield young child eyes
As elders clutch their beating chests
These people look at us and think
"Punks"
"Burn-outs"
"Delinquents"
"Youths"
"Always causing trouble where ever
they go"
I'm not a bad kid, honestly,
I'm just playing your part
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 4:40 AM UTC
I
I've never hit my children.
My own father spanked me perhaps ten times:
for riding my bike on a busy street,
for "acting up" in church.
I have no nostalgia for these beatings
(as in: "Sure glad Pa whupped some sense inta me as a young'n—
don't know where I'd be if he hadn't.")
He would make me pull down my pants and underpants
enough to expose my buttocks,
position me between his legs so he could hold my own legs still,
bend me over his left leg with his left arm,
and hit me with his bare right hand.
What I remember as much as the pain
is his angry expression: Was he angry at me?
Or at something else?
I believe it was mostly an unpleasant duty;
usually done because my mother had asked him.
They were afraid we'd become juvenile delinquents.
I suppose his own father had spanked him--
and that he, in turn, had been spanked by his father--
a family tradition. . . .
There've been times with my own children--
God knows they're far from perfect--
where I've almost given in to anger.
Somehow I've always caught myself,
always remembered that unseemliness. . . .
II
Our house is kind of ugly from the front, a split-level
with the whole left side facing the street being a solid brick wall.
Our picture window faces the grass and trees of the back yard.
Each morning, no matter how much of a hurry I'm in,
I open the curtains to this window--
that my children might see not just the man-made objects of our living room
but some hint of the grace and beauty of the whole, great, natural world.
Jul 30, 2017
Jul 30, 2017 at 3:54 PM UTC
I am a criminal,
So you and the papers say.
They would put me away
For countless nights and days.
Tucked away "safe" in jail,
All for the choice of herbs I inhale.
That they would only have their way...
Yet I am no marauding mobster,
No gangster for hire.
I smoke in the evenings
When daylight is fleeting
And withdraw to my rooms to retire.
I am no plundering pirate
Pillaging your private property.
I go about my day,
As right as I may,
You will find no evil protégée.
I am spoken in the same breath
As delinquents and undesirables.
The infamously unfavourable,
Mire on our tireless society.
Well I am tired now,
Fatigued.
I've grown weary of living
In your narrow minded
Make believe.
Yet I leave you be.
Keep to mine and own.
It is you who lights the torches
From high deluded throne.
It is you who crafted and rounded
That perfect stone,
Hurled with such indiscrimination
Always many, never alone.
Each night now I wonder,
When I cross that imaginary line.
Such fools we've been,
The waste obscene,
Who really commits the crime?
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 8:01 PM UTC
“A relationship with knowledge”
It was said in preschool classrooms,
Childish cafeterias and forgotten
Blissfully, on the monkey bars and jungle gyms
It was said to raging delinquents
Preached to a stuffy, shy girl
Busy pushing her glasses too close to her nose
Fidgeting around the corners of the library
It made its way towards teachers
And raucous PTA meetings
Each lobbyist far too adamant;
Ears drooped and beleaguered
A relationship with knowledge
Well
Who is this knowledge?
Does he play nice?
I think I met him, once
He smiled at me, dirtied- on the street
But I can’t really be sure
He seems to be awfully elusive
How silly, to make a relationship
With someone who never seems to show up
But maybe its not his fault
maybe we’ve ruined his fun
Watching us now, elbows dug into text
Bracing like bulls staring down cobbled streets
It seems an awfully aggressive stance
To take with company
It looks as if our teachers lied
We are trying to capture knowledge
Or I wouldn’t be the only one
To sit by the train tracks
Waiting for my friend to come along
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 3:16 PM UTC
It's the same dull presentation every year.
Her friends all aware.
She stands out today,
but then again,
not really.
She is of the few who remembered,
the occasion that is.
Simple black dress.
Black boots.
Poppy ablaze on her heart.
She is quiet today.
The Marlboro-huffing voice,
crackles over the P.A.,
telling students to report to the cafetorium.
She rises out of her seat,
smoothes her dress,
and straightens her poppy.
She is first to hand in the annual
"I Will Remember..."
slip of paper.
Along with her older brother's name.
Not looking back as she leaves.
Everyone files into their seats,
their bland, identical, mauve-coloured seats;
fidgeting before they even sit.
The "populars" in front of her,
texting and tweeting life away.
Insanity.
She silently studies the band, bitter as can be.
All there for extra cred, or to get out of class.
"Delinquents reading sheet music"
Printed on white, crisp new paper,
only to be forgotten about,
or thrown out tomorrow.
The anthem is played,
she loses control.
Tears tearing a path down her face.
Nothing but a scratchy wool sleeve to help;
all the while,
not without a stiff upper lip.
And as soon as it started,
the entire thing is over,
and everyone files out of their seats.
While she and a friend quietly duck into a bathroom,
seeking refuge from the common calm.
She cries.
Then quickly collects herself and walks back alone.
She enters class,
late with bloodshot eyes; daring anyone to speak.
Smeared makeup like warpaint.
Catching the eyes of her classmates,
as well as those of her teacher,
who now understands.
Though it's a silent knowing,
of course;
because nobody enjoys talking about,
nor remembering,
the day of the assembly.
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 4:12 PM UTC
They nickel and dime me
So money can't find me
While debt keeps climbing
With inconvenient timing
A note reading foreclosure
Spells my doom
As a realtor's brochure
Sells my room
Poverty looms
Over my head
As everything is taken
Even the bread
And what I use to bake it
They come with a gun
Demanding that I run
They tell me I can't stay here
Police presence engenders fear
So this place I once held dear
Will no longer be near
And the bank
Maintains rank
Over the poor
Locking the door
So I hit the floor
Hatred in my core
I adopt an attitude
Of eat or be eaten
This simple platitude
Will get me beaten
Money isn't that hard to make
If that's all you're trying to do
Yet they take all they can take
Like they've got something to prove
They don't mind
Separating bees from the hive
Power is control money buys
So the rich are seen as wise
Even if they're destroying the world
Forcing families from their homes
And now the rocks they hurl
Are delivered by drones
From lethality to loans
We're stripped to the bone
And feel all alone
On a planet of exploitation
It's tough to live the full duration
When we're stuck at a bus station
Called placation
Where the wealthy do what they want
Because they have money to flaunt
Giving them status and power
To build their ivory tower
By evicting delinquents
And bombing huts
A dog-like sequence
We're treated like mutts
The cumulus accumulate
Usurping heaven's gate
Creating a second rate
Decrepit estate
For us to deflate
Into a state
Of hate
And wait
For a mate
To feel great
So our slate
Has low weight
But once it gets late
We ask for a rebate
We run for the frivolous
But that fun is insidious
And it's slowly killing us
From emptiness filling us
We withdraw into shells
Of similar mundane hells
Until the bank comes knocking
Then into the streets we're flocking
While they're progress blocking
And pistol cocking
We kneel and worship them
Begging for mercy
They're the problem's stem
Yet we wear their jersey
Which is absolute insanity
But money controls humanity
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 12:57 AM UTC
Yesterday's heroes
neoteric delinquents
the Grateful dead.
Jun 21, 2021
Jun 21, 2021 at 12:25 PM UTC
Demagogues of our society; daftly delivering
disarming delusions of decrepit delights.
Dealing in powder, rock and liquid death,
demurely doled out in droves to the
willing unconscious, dysfunctional deviants
of the land.
Blindly offering devotions, flaccid devotions
to plastic, white collar deities; giving new
definition to internal deformity, through
decelerated dejection.
Desperate and emotionally dismembered,
defrauded by quick, cheap decadence,
debauchery, and mental decay in many
deliriously delicious forms...pick a flavor,
name your poison!
Delegate your defect, as those with
doctoral degrees in defunct traditions
do deviously delineate their demented
designs...for our future.
DejaVu?
Perhaps, but in fact, it is we
who sniff, inject and drink up their drivel,
decidedly and dutifully depleted of
intellect by way of dubious data.
Duplicitous dullards...sanitize and
deodorize their fiendish lies...as we,
WE do nothing!
Not enough of us dumbfounded or
dumbstruck by their deceitful smiles.
Full of dread and deep dismay, by
the statutes of the day...I, for one,
will dream of better days, when we
shall defeat these diabolical demons.
But for now, down beaten, downtrodden;
we will continue to be denigrated for
the duration.
Clever dissection; dumb as they want you
to be,
disparity of all creativity...individuality...
and all of your rights...controversially.
Our disgruntled displeasure doomed...to
fall on dormant hearts...and we,
debilitated and daunted, lives dismantled,
are now forever haunted, by our freedoms
demise...by days we could question
their smiling lies.
Demagogues; Big Brother...such delinquents
dosing up the masses with a deluge of powder,
rock sedation and liquid elation...pick your flavor,
name your poison.
At the end of the day WE are ONE...duped,
defaced, defeated...and to continue on this
road, our final denouement will come
disturbingly disguised...as DEATH!
-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 3:40 PM UTC
Through the whispers of a kiss,
Misguided video kite flying blissfully ignorant of this,
Double life tragedy,
An unreachable majesty,
Of first impression dissatisfaction and no love actually,
Or one who's too cute to fall for your imagery,
Sick of hearing soppy similes,
Sucker symbols and sentimental soliloquies,
Angels ate my face and gave me this grimace,
Dwelling with the devil's delinquents influenced my appearance,
Fallen archetypes of valor and prestige,
Resurrected by the words of the assassin's creed,
Memories are paintings hung up by despair,
As I drift in this blizzard taking in more cold air,
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 6:22 PM UTC
Home airs have become quieter,
Things are back to normal...
Here in this house, which isn't my home,
The soundless afternoon winds bring a touch of melancholy,
Holiday season is finished, the hours pass by so slowly.
In the living room, my eyes strayed upwards,
Towards a Christmas wreath left hanging on the wall...
A sunbeam was shining weakly over it...but,
It rested on the wreath long...long enough, it dazzled me with a reality
That changed the preponderant gloomy atmosphere...
The wreath will be kept, for next year...
It is sad to think, another season over
Another year over....and
December is still eleven months away,
But.... the reason for the season could linger on, if we choose to.
It is said, charity begins at home, but it doesn't have to end there...
We quickly stretch our hands for our family, close friends in need,
They are our loved ones, it feels good...feels like Christmas!
But the old, the blind, the disabled people, are strangers, waiting...
What if we gave them even just a bit of ourselves....even just for a while?
Some warmth, or smiles...a hand to find their way,
The Christmas feeling would be alive! Stronger!
For the street children, the orphans in a hospice, it means Christmas,
To be fed, kept warm with clothing and shelter, any time, day, or month.
They... we...would feel a heavenly kind of peace surround us...
It would mean everything for the prisoners, the juvenile delinquents
If we could spend an aftenoon with them,
Listen to their rumblings, litanies of their pain, their losses,
Hear their past moments of glory...of how it is
To be neglected... deserted by their own loved ones...
It is Christmas day, to see them lifted from their agonizing silence, beaming...
To see a child's lost front teeth, as ***** gives a smile of happiness
While holding a bag of goodies and gifts of toys,
Would melt the ice...the stone-cold airs dwelling within...
Maybe, even the lukewarm souls could change...
It is Christmas for them...... for, these short-lived holiday moments,
Mean the world to them...
Yes.....
Charity begins at home, but it does not end there...
If only we could stretch our hands...bearing in mind---
A kind deed done to our fellow human beings,
Is as good as done to God.
The sun shines bright on that Christmas wreath on the wall,
Any time, any day of the year....
Even if it's not there at all...
"Whatever you have done to the least of my brethren, you have done unto me..." (Matthew 25:40)
Sally
Copyright 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 12:17 PM UTC
They say that good people
Are meant to stay away from people who are "bad"
They learn that their pity towards those people get them nowhere
They come to know that they should push those who are bad away
Those people who are outcasts, Who are loners
The players, delinquents and rebels
The people who spit venom when approached
That talk or dress in a particular way, who have this "look"
That say hateful things, and do things that hurt others
Destroying every piece of happiness that dares enter their lives
The 'Good' learn to avoid these types of people
and many times its for good reason
Though I believe that there is a reason behind every action
When a person is driven to hurt others
its because somebody has hurt them too
Those people who seem cold and push people away
Those people that say hateful things in a spur of a moment
The people who act in irregular ways from a 'normal' person
Its to those people that we should be kind
Though through your kindness you must be sincere
As merely fake kindness will only hurt them more
I believe that the people who do bad things
They know what they doing is wrong
But I believe that there is a reasoning behind them
That many people don't seem to want to understand
Its something that they don't want to see
As much as those people don't want to believe that people can be truly kind
Forcing themselves to believe that the world is truly so cold and cruel
And that there is not a trace of anything beautiful
Be kind to them
please,
Sincerely An outsider
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 1:41 AM UTC
HEY SOCIETY,
you don't really like us, so what do we do?
so we give in to stringing up all of our words
from our emotions and call it poetry
the same poetry that is left on the doorstep
at strictly three o'clock am in the morn
with the corners of the dollar store notebook torn
hey society, how about you share some of our
deep inner pain's blame?
SINCERELY,
the chaotic souls,
adrenaline junkies,
cursed delinquents,
paranoid teens,
and fluorescent adolescents.
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 2:50 PM UTC
poetry, is almost dead
it’s gasping for breath
reaching out ,tearing at the bottom of our pants
clinging to anyone it can
A solider of culture
being dragged from the battlefield,
after an open fire attack
by generations and generations
Poetry,
words strung together with beautiful precision
feelings reveled
people laying naked
exposed
Bleeding on the stage, on the page,
on the bathroom walls at the Mall
On the subways, in the sand
even writing on their hands
trying to save
….
what’s dying
This is why we slam.
this is how we resurrect the language
energy emitting from our bones like electricity
catchy beats and in your face attitudes
give flesh to the skeletal body
of poetry
This is why we slam.
because Poe wasn’t tough enough
Keats is too old fashioned for us
and the philosophical words of Robert Frost are foreign to us.
Today he who is shunned for his talented tongue
mush break the mold,
ignore the sweet sonnet and the subtle hiku
that is
misunderstood
modern day delinquents
those too ignorant to recognize
an onslaught of alliteration
or
a well placed metaphor
those who find poetry
a bore
This is why we slam.
let our strength ring out through our voices
This is why we slam.
we speak our truths
pick off the paint covering the ugly reality
This is why we slam.
to be heard.
When the traditional beauty of Owen, Wordsworth and Dickenson
Just won’t do
us slam poets hear the call
and we come through
This is why we slam.
To face the harsh reality that is society
to attack
the politics,
the racism
the injustices
of life itself
Fast words whizzing from our mouths
from our hearts
slamming the ****** silence
and complacency
that has become today’s reality
This is why we slam.
To be heard,
to resurrect the dying art.
This is why we slam.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 3:40 PM UTC
In a distant world things seem so distant, its consistent the distance is always distant
No resistance,
Achieving is noticeable through persistence
The crimes logically committed are lost to delinquents
In sequence commuting through short existence
Its fiction
"knowledge" the most powerful addiction
Controlling power that can put "nothing" to extinction.
Unlocking impossible is possible
Highly unprovable
But possible
Do what you believe
That's what you'll receive
Thinking is a process indefinitely intrigues
Mastering can put you on top of all leagues
Every time it gets harder to prestige
just breathe
Think twice were all animals
I can even turn vegetarian's into cannibals..
nothings impossible its logical...
May 15, 2012
May 15, 2012 at 12:13 AM UTC
We were kids trapped in ultra suburbia
A dying town disguised by perfectly lined houses
Filled with children, fake smiles, and cancerous spouses
To escape it all we rode our bikes like a teenage armada
Not knowing where our wheels took us, they took us away
We found adventures in silly things like abandoned houses and railways
All of us held hands while we sat around the fire
Coughing out our hearts quietly so we didn't wake the earth
I remember the time my parents yelled at me
For being a little too girly
Or when her mother burned her with cigarettes
For doing something she'll never regret
But in all this pain we became better people
Let's not forget the times we got in trouble for being us
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC
I've listened to pioneers
I've talked to delinquents
Heard of rumors
Learned of facts
Theories of the curious
Laws of the illustrious
Everything is the same
And it's the same in every "right".
As long as we continue to abide
To break and to rule and oblige
Always on queue as we search for clues
We always do, but settle our dues
To live and to be exterminated
To be downtrodden, to be accepted
We live a virtuous yet infectious life
But not all are asleep-laid to rest every night.
Some give birth as the reaper does its work
Love forever blooms as cults of hate still lurk
Religious gospels countered by the sacrilegious
Funny how both sides argue on identical mediums
One nation, one race, yet we cancel each and erase
Its the start of the end,
but what does life has to say?
Jan 19, 2021
Jan 19, 2021 at 10:51 PM UTC
Delinquents perform instantaneous falls into a tortured well.
Where in seamless fashion increase the heart rates in echoes,
and tell the leaders to walk fast, for we are close behind.
The road to true freedom lies in heart of sinner. where thoughts of lost loves and lifes dance ever so quick to judge me, for I am a holder of sin and triumph and I can never let that go.
They try to say that my salvation will sail above me. That the beauty of the trees and stars were not mine from the start, and that everything ive earned and learned I should be looking up to thanks.
But what we've hold to be true is that my blood should have all the thanks, my heart and my soul are the only things that push me to my next day, and fill my world with what I have to give, and what ive had taken from my life.
The people of my generation have lost there way in thinking for themselves. Mindless bags of bones following the kin before, with no lungs to breathe in the new air. The air of despair and heartbreak, of pain and tourture. The air of lust and love, and the feeling of being alone.
Sharing the falsity of told news they looked up for the blame.
Which told us doing nothing and knowing the same was always best,
and lies kept the mass in the fog, to never see the light.
So we struggle to find a breaking point, never knowing how much torture is enough.
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 3:33 PM UTC
*Lovers by day;
Delinquents by night.
A theft of the heart;
With eyes shining bright.*
They are a perfect disaster.
Killer smiles and secretive eyes;
Delinquents with motives to hide.
They are a perfect disaster.
A sinner and a black sheep;
Delinquents that come in the night.
They are a perfect disaster.
Ruby red lips and baby blue eyes;
Delinquents that are running to hide.
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 6:27 PM UTC
gradual buildup
of ********
now all I can see
is through it
and all I want to do
is ruin it
all the flawed accounts with fake people
I can't stand it
I can no longer contribute
to the scene of social media fiends
who do anything
simply to be seen
relinquish your dependence
wave goodbye to all delinquents
then find you become in sync
with everything you feel and think
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 9:34 PM UTC
When my friend and I finally got chicks, they decided to leave us.
My friend's name is Butt-Head and my name is Beavis.
I thought that I was pregnant even though I'm a boy.
Because Butt-head and I are stupid, people get annoyed.
I become the Great Cornholio when I eat too much sugar.
I'm actually a mental case who eats his own boogers.
When Butt-Head and I meet chicks, we're sure to sexually harass.
And if you have a teenage daughter, you'll end up kicking my ***
If you meet us face to face, we're sure to cause great anxiety.
We are both juvenile delinquents who are threats to society.
Don't come near us or you'll get so mad that you'll cuss.
You will be happy and better off if you stay away from us.
May 14, 2020
May 14, 2020 at 4:16 PM UTC
Picking up the pencil with haste.
I Harshly applying the words onto paper.
Not wanting my words to go to waste.
The pencil glides along like a thin razor.
Ideas just burst within me.
They scatter around my mind,
Crying to be let free.
Becoming wickedly intertwined.
Continuing my crooked pace.
Not daring to stop for a single minute.
The words giving me a chase.
I catch them like delinquents.
Sep 30, 2011
Sep 30, 2011 at 12:31 PM UTC
Some say we scare them,
some just pass by and think
**** delinquents."**
But then some stare
and start to remember
the times when they
were this young
and had so little
running through
their minds.
My mother warned me
one day
about these "gritty teenagers."
One day
she was being warned.
You never ultimately understand
the minds of the people
that can't understand
their own.
But these people,
created a world
that has changed
on many different occasions.
This world that
is full of angst
and has smoke clouds
forming around
the most chaotic
people.
I wonder sometimes,
on off days,
how this is all possible.
How could I have found
such contradicting comfort
in the people
in the places
where I once used to be
scolded about.
I've learned to
accept that
it's just an off day
that has worked out
in my absolute favor.
And I never want to have
another on day
again.
We roam the streets,
yelling obscenities.
Or just sit in a
crowded garage
that never gets
claustrophobic.
We throw out conversations
about ***
and have no care about it
because we're teenagers.
We flaunt out every secret
that we aren't supposed
to know,
and never keep quiet.
We comfort each other
when others
can't *see the world
as clearly*
as I can.
Sometimes I wonder
why people don't
approach me more often
to ask me
"Where are your friends?"
when they probably know
that I'm one of those
"gritty teenagers"
that'll respond with
"having a smoke somewhere."
and some days
I don't want to ask myself
if I'm ready to leave
the people
that I
*ride in cars,
sleep,
slap,
*****
waste my time
with.*
I'm not sure
if I should
ever
be ready
to leave
the people I name
after the synonym of
male.
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 11:07 AM UTC