"pubescence" poems
Gripping dripping smearing love.
Over your eyes!!!
Over your ovaries, where babies, your clutch.
There's no time to nest,
Resist!
Resist
,
be the diode, resistor to heart plunge.
Plug up the sewer.
(more like a catacomb)
My heart's in the ****** cake.
The smell, Cytotoxic invades chemical response conformation.
We; bitten, by fangs of silicon,
the world takes us away from ivy
grown homes,
torn then seamed up jack o' lanterns always smiling orange.
Have you ever grown up from being 11?
It's the saddest thing you've seen.
You see a fledgling,
altricial,
awkward,
gawk/cock,
turn from a boy
to a lady.
Plump. Or . Musculate.
Slowly they regenerate their lady parts.
Regardless of gender.
Have you seen them bleed?
Some bleed white tears that burn the urethra.
Some, never grow up.
Transmogrified they call it.
Never to be beautiful again.
Angst entangles, ensues, makes doubt
pubescence is for flowers and hairs.
Namesake.
5th Grade.
Curious formation, curious nature
It's as if we are stalagmites of the future,
We decorate walls or cave ceilings to perform our correct action.
Too bad our self image is always garbled, confused by our refraction.
NEVER GRADUATE COLLEGE.
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 5:25 PM UTC
A depression that's been present since the onset of pubescence turned a child that went to church into a child with some convictions.
A warped sense of the world has greatly altered my perception and since now I hardly bother with it all I just accept it.
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 12:45 AM UTC
Dear Gwen Stefani Circa 2006,
The first music I chose to like that wasn’t
just my mom’s tuning of the radio was
Your solo CD, the first and best of two, which
I made sure to get on my twelfth birthday, after
I made sure to get my first kiss.
We were not rookie sixth graders anymore,
In soggy bathing suits teeming with pubescence,
So I publicized my plans to plant one on
Yeorgios Mavromatis, the new seventh grade boyfriend,
The first boy to buy me jewelry I would not like,
The first boy I used to make myself infamous.
Our hallway bottlenecked with twelve year olds,
Alone we sat on the bed, legs dangling above
The stained beige carpet. The kiss was damp and boring.
But the crowd that pressed at the door was an ******
Surged voices told me my dad was walking up the stairs,
I arched around to throw the boyfriend in the closet,
My father caught me, and I wore the walk through them
Like your scarlet lipstick. The album of
My first kiss was not passion, but gossip.
I’ve seen you in red lipstick, bindis, and blue hair,
A pink wedding dress, and a Platinum Blonde Life.
I knew you were making art meant to publicize.
The songs and the clothes and the Harajuku Girls,
The boys and the clothes and the Children’s Theatre,
The day I made a scene was the day I knew.
Catholic guilt and couture gilt and creative goals
Took two West Coast girls, only twenty three years apart
And turned them into people you paid attention to.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 10:47 PM UTC
I joust myself into jovial life
Jocose tatterdemalion and stygian salaciousness
Umbrage abrogating merit like swamping locusts
The mammoth chip on shouldered kids starving for life
I'm waiting on purgatory, and I'll wait for you with knives out
Cemetry of the artist stubbed beards and pubescence in the Phoenician Lands
He said she should have left the house
Tomahawks can still cut the vineyard, make my loquacity into beer-tap poetry
Flowery, murmur, kumbaya, kalimba de la soul and all thoughts aside
You're hoping music brings the song to my speechless heart
Your dance sounds light the motionless night, only the tapping of starry footsteps
Hob-nobs, more and more, knobs of heaven's doors open to every hippie with angel hair
Crossing the wires of substrates
Sonatas and partitas can be lugubrious, yet, elegantly examined
Nocturnes, from the centuries
Of ten old centurions
Came down to the Colosseum
Gladiator enthralled the chariots of fire
I was with ten ants, burning under the microscope
Tenants of this Roman Empire
Fighting for your rights
Fighting for the people who cannot fight
For the weak, requires peace and understanding
Shiny, homeless people lost the soul to the drugs and marijuana smoke under streetlamps stretching to infinity
This earth is an orchard of flowers
Slightly plump in the middle, it's mother nature
Not zaftig, it has latitudes and longitudes
Lavish life, garish fiefdom, stretches across the bent imagination of perverse minds
Looking for a kiosk in the peak of red skies that do not know blood and aggravation
New Year's Day, the cyka cry Mother Russia and SOS
Shooting flares into the sky
To reach so low, and to reach so high
Shouting slogans, written by the poets
Passion, prejudice, sensibility, comradery these are metiers of poets
Secrets strewed across the bloodless sky
Wishful thinking tantamount to head in the clouds
The clouds have different shapes and size, the fire of the greater existence lends us words in thoughts
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 1:01 PM UTC
Writ a full report,
This medical miracle,
Is so ******** in the head!
We'd better take him to an expert,
Maybe they'll understand,
His diagnosis,
Is dead.
He's smoking!
He's drinking!
He's ******* with some girl!
She appears to be a scary *****
Let the horror-show unfurl!
I prescribe a good vacation,
Maybe just a shrink,
**** it!
Let's send him to a psych-ward,
Drain his blood,
And make him think!
Pubescence is a crime against humanity,
Teens are dead or on the brink,
I won't stop complaining!
Teenagers are crazy,
Drunk,
And blazing,
Tell me again to **** myself,
And you'll watch your blood spill out!
Cry until you die,
Abandoned tear-ducts,
Buy my time.
We've sold our souls to 4 years,
Of razor blades,
And *** online.
Cry!
Cry!
Cry!
Alligator tears abide.
Maybe I'll climb,
Just to jump.
Cross my heart,
Hope to fly!
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 11:11 AM UTC
You are an after-effect
A ghost
A nuclear bomb
A spec of dust in the wind
A dream of pubescence
A sweet candy
Of chamomile tea and orange juice
what are all these ruse?
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 10:15 AM UTC
There, in an instant of time,
Lies that of inestimable value.
More spectacular than a snowclad peak
In the purple light of dawn,
Softer than the downy cheek
Of a maiden in pubescence,
More meaningful than
A pocketful of ill gained goods
By the light of a waning robber moon,
Sweeter than a sensuous kiss
Or the touch of a ***** ***** in passion,
Richer than a Kings’ bulging ransom…….
Tis the warmth of knowing and sharing well,
An old and trusted
FRIENDSHIP.
M.
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 10:48 PM UTC
My mother’s a writer
My father’s a writer
And they have plenty to write about
But nothing to do
And my mother is sad
Because she says,
“I’ve run out of emotion,”
She misses that raw pubescence
That I’ve so gracefully wrapped myself in
I love to love strangers, the stranger the better
“I can only stand the people I know,”
But she used to steal road signs
And she used to coax the white teeth teens
Out of pearl-sided mansions
Onto oil slicked streets
My mother’s a writer
My father’s a writer
And they have plenty to write about
But nothing to do
My father was rich when he was 21
He had a leatherbound book of poetry
A fiance and three best mates
“Loved them, crazy guys”
But then he said, “we were all crazy then,”
But then there were children and houses
Mid-life crises, loans to be paid
They were wild, broken when they joined the PTA
And now they’re sick
Of raising their children
They’re off to South America
To feel human again
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 3:31 AM UTC
im guilty--
biting my nail, biting my lip,
biting my
t o n g u e
fidgeting, flickering eyes that go
on and off, on and off
me
im chronic,
nervous,
in a state of
mind your own
business
im obsessed with
looking down at my feet as i walk
___
im forever stuck
in this awkward
edge-of-pubescence
b o d y
when i've already
died
a few hundred times
over
___
i dont have *******
i have two hearts,
beating out of my chest
___
im fragile,
tender,
might just topple over
or burst
into a million pieces of
confetti,
in my room:
its always somebody's birthday
that somebody is me
but i don't know somebody,
perhaps i used to know me
perhaps i never did
___
sometimes i want
oranges:
bright, round, yellow
fresh, spunky, don't-give-a-fuck
ill roll
whenever you put me down
im just a lemon:
yellow, iffy-butty
please
dont put me down
___
i just want someone to know me
(love me)
i just want to be an orange:
i wanna be what i seem
nothing to go off about
nothing to get put down about
___
i come as i am
and i get sent back home for it
you see--
i know nothing
all too well
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 12:47 AM UTC
you were not my prey
on this long hot day
though it seemed you
sensed you were
skittering in front of me
on the trail forever
or at least 1000 seconds--forever
in lizard time
perhaps you knew who I was, a reptile killer
since the dawn of man
or since my perverse pubescence, when I'd hunt
whiptails and rattlers
and take prickly pride in how many of you
my .22 Ruger would slaughter
I have that time hidden in gray folds
beneath an old skull
I don't carry the weapons of war,
anymore
but I can't deceive you, not in the naked
light of the sun
you were right to run; though I have concealed
my blood lust, you know it is still there
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 6:12 PM UTC
dreams are now just cracked porcelain cups
their matching saucers long gone or never present
broken because of ******* pubescence
oh how they failed to mention how unpleasant
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 5:07 AM UTC
First Steps
by Michael R. Burch
for Caitlin Shea Murphy
To her a year is like infinity,
each day—an adventure never-ending.
She has no concept of time,
but already has begun the climb—
from childhood to womanhood recklessly ascending.
I would caution her, "No! Wait!
There will be time enough another day . . .
time to learn the Truth
and to slowly shed your youth,
but for now, sweet child, go carefully on your way! . . ."
But her time is not a time for cautious words,
nor a time for measured, careful understanding.
She is just certain
that, by grabbing the curtain,
in a moment she will finally be standing!
Little does she know that her first few steps
will hurtle her on her way
through childhood to adolescence,
and then, finally, pubescence . . .
while, just as swiftly, I’ll be going gray!
Keywords/Tags: child, childhood, adolescence, pubescence, growing up, first steps, walking, running, aging
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 12:57 PM UTC
Your pupils buzz like declining carnival lights, & your hands move like reluctance in high heels
Your phrases stumble out, knocking into that syntactical lamp post the keen call "tongue-tied".
Your shoe laces would make great ribbon pasta, with a touch of blood red sauce and olive oil tears.
Your cloudy curls hum with the activity of that misguided swarm the doctors call "agitated overthinking" .
Your arms hang long, draped with the golden moss of pubescence, weighed by the leaves & twigs that scrape the surface of logical revelation like harsh chalk.
Your voice, the uneven droplets from the faucet, wets the crevices of one's invisible compassion.
Your are the Princess of the Absurd, the red-coat orphan on a suburban, spray-painted Saturn.
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 6:02 PM UTC
Parable of Torvisco: “branched among the thickets of ignorance, their foliated stems speak of the white blood that has fallen from the souls that resiliently endured the solitude of their limbs and who enjoyed their ruddy bark and the pubescence of the Daphnes that gawked at over them turned into Laurel, she being a spatulate flower of Vernarth, like Apollo elliptically adoring her with the underside, and something fuzzy hiccuping over the teachings of someone who is not loved. Being the Daphniform Torvisco, of appressed retractable sepals that are pronounced on the laurels in Dafnomancia of the pubescent Torvisco on the first ************ of Daphne, leaving the ovoid crusts near the foliate stolon of the grayish spurs on the fins of the Pelecaniformes Petrobusjos, leaving the Malloga the lice. of their plumage that they are eaten by laurels, as a carminative antispasmodic digestive degassing, in the flora of the intestinal Torvisco engulfed by their pride and eagerness of nobility.
Parable of Sacred Bud: “first the animals and the buds that emanated from the inflorescences were venerated, as gods of the occult sprouting from the long-lived saps being miscellaneous family taxonomies that were consecrated to gods trapped by the mists of their foliage, over the colonies of other species with outbreaks of bud expiration in the distant buds of the leaves, towards non-renewable woody plants, for critical tempering to germinate on the dogma of woody herbaceous plants, as sacred shoots of ferns without their cell walls. Here is the tree of evil and good, sprouting one of each but as hyper-sprouting, which deceived the eyes of those who wanted to cut it because of the human snooping in bloom, on the shores of Medea's hands, growing on the shore of a headless river deity, who was not yet poisoned by an Olympian gesture, agreeing to have long fragrant and rosy hair on the pubescent teenagers who dared to call themselves Medea "
(Prócoro redoubling his sinister imagination of the Rosé of the Witches and grotesques, he was still ecstatic at the expectation of the extensions of the Rosary of the Evangelista San Juan simulated in the crowned Torvisco, for purposes of the genetics of the world in the hands of pubescent bodies that were embodied in the bodies and their stolons, like retrograde shoots going towards the spheres of the pelecaniform Petrobus and its little lice that resided in it as vital alarms. Structuring thus, the grazing that ran from its wings with vigorous fine pediculosis, which was abstracted from the scalps Medea decked out in megalomania in the sprouts of the Enchanted Torvisco)
Jan 23, 2021
Jan 23, 2021 at 6:16 PM UTC
it started out when we were young. an awkward exchange of hi and hello happened as i sat behind you in class. then it branched out to you and i becoming the oddest pair of friends. we became children who were innocently playing, and doodling, and learning, and creating. we did all these together. we laughed, and cried, and engaged in the peculiar adventures our curious minds cooked for us. until suddenly, you created something confounding in me. it grew and grew and grew. it is wonderful, what you gave me. you are wonderful.
i am sorry i did not realise your wonder until a couple of years after. i could have said it. but the innocence of our childhood slipped away and corruption of the mind crawled in. the years of pubescence emerged. labels were created. i feared rejection, and pain, and loss. the hypothetical loss of what we had if ever i did tell it to you. i feared the judgement of our peers, how they might call me a ****** if ever i would admit it. (not the good kind of ****** either.) i became scared. so i kept it inside. buried it deep and locked it away forever.
forever does not exist. the feeling fought its way up, and unearthed itself from the depth of my being. it grew and grew and grew even more. and by that time, i too, grew. i learnt acceptance and so i accepted it. I never admitted it though, but i vowed to never bury it anymore. it silently stayed on the surface of my being. and every time i saw you, i would say it.
i love you. i told it to you a few years back, when i hugged you for the last time before that year ended, and when i said we would remain the oddest pair of friends. i told it to you when you messaged me something funny and i would burst into a fit of giggles. i told it to you when i invited you to be my plus one during that particular valentines day, and when i expressed my extreme delight as you said yes. i told it to you when i played with your hair. i told it to you when I grabbed your hand and held it like you would suddenly disappear if I let go. i told it to you when i would be left speechless and marvel at your perfect self. i told it to you when i told you who i really was and again when i hugged you after you told me you accepted me. i told it to you every time ever since that moment i realised what you gave me was the feeling of love.
now remains the question: did you ever say it too?
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 10:05 AM UTC
my body, an unfinished puzzle
men pocketing my cherished pieces
chunks of my heart they like to smuggle
maybe they're feeding their demons,
maybe they get off on my struggle
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 6:17 AM UTC