"teenaged" poems
I don't know how to write happy poems
because I don't really believe in them.
I thought angst would die with adolescence,
but alas I can still feel its cold dint.
Perhaps like virginity this goes too;
no longer a creep standing idly by.
Plastic smiles taped to our cardboard faces
and yours alone I felt the need to prise.
That's okay, because the teenaged rosebud
that we claim to be so very unique
is beginning to wither, can't you see?
And now it's the thorns society seeks.
So look out over yonder cityscape.
Your mask shall be shed only by the moon.
Until then, a cartographer of love;
yours that is, we'll still pathetically swoon.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 10:06 PM UTC
I'm trying
to read poetry...
a new love for me.
My critic's heart
is not so harsh
since you came to me.
You've freed me.
But..................
I'm distracted.
I'm stuck...
thinking...
your hand in my mouth...
the other on my wrist...
the blankets falling down...
There's teeth inside that kiss.
Even now
my breath is ragged...
my heart is quick
to send oxygen to my
(you know what)
and I....
know I love you for
far more than this...
but..............
OH
my
GAWD...
Did he just?
Yes he did.
And a smile wouldn't cover
how I felt with you last night.
Sounds like some **** right?
Like I'm lost inside
some teenaged *****
and thinking only of my groin
but you know me more
than I know me.
I spent six years waiting for this...
like it could be cultivated..
making love
instead of
making love.
Like the goal
was feeling satisfied
instead of
feeling loved.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC
son spreads knee blood into ******* &/or
sidewalk chalk.
mixes reds to pinks with head cracking asphalt.
of god & country.
of soggy bread in a lunch-bag; snackpack readied.
he skates.
the concussed ****** of booming youth.
omega he:
to the wolf pack outers.
breathing love of summer, he
is the son drunk on hi-c
& burping.
watching teenaged supersoakers yodel
on a bridge.
florida.
son sneaks out late to rationalize
the city’s features
under strange light & love of nightly people.
boy sculpts body out of beast,
turned dark corners.
arrives swollen.
his father erects a roofed flattop in the backyard slab
with flood light electronics taught to worship
the shred.
mother rattles the blender
on the kitchen outskirts, ***** breathed
& nearing with hugs.
blister-itched.
glossed folds of scar tissue.
those days on summer-beyond when the neighborhood pulsates.
with satellite dishes tuneforking high-frequency vibrations
from outerspace & pigeons explode.
son’s ears bleed, &
the television goes unwatched.
he snaps plank & ankle protein, refurbishing
his legs into iron-rods
or wands of summer anthem.
cold war.
he empties sugar-sweat & toxins
into the storm-drain.
essence of wet heat, skin pinched, & friend
of ghosts.
a three legged dog lay in the shade
leisurely watching the boy skate
on endless.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 1:11 AM UTC
I want to go back, back to my New Orleans
This place that I call New Orleans is actually Louisiana
But still, the gorgeousness of this dirt and grime
The live oaks stretching over the 6-lane wide streets,
Touching leaftips, making a canopy over the passerbys
Crepe myrtles showering streets with lacy pink faerie dresses
Smells of beignets and seafood fill the French Quarter
Intense, consuming, warm, loving sun burning through your shirt
In New Orleans to say horses sweat, men perspire and women glow
is to be ridiculous.
In New Orleans everyone sweats like pigs.
As for the grime I mentioned, this exists mainly in
the sidewalks cracked by live oaks which make an adventure of every walk down the street
And in any semi-deserted street
To have a Mardi Gras or St. Patrick's Day without a parade and citywide party is to toss aside traditions and the New Orleanian way
The New Orleanians are welcoming, hearty and heartwarming, tough and unafraid to talk to a stranger on the streets.
An old black man once greeted me with 'konichiwa' as I walked past
A middle aged white man once struck up a conversation with us as he realised we had shared the same ferry earlier in the day
An old asian woman conversed familiarly with our family at Cafe Du Monde simply because we are Vietnamese as well
A teenaged white boy waved at us as we drove past him jogging
A different old black man stopped and serenaded my siblings, mother and me with his trumpet just because we smiled
Several young mothers and women have stopped my mother to gush over my siblings and me, usually when we were very small
I, myself, have given directions to a tourist or two, lost near Cafe Du Monde or the levee,
And I hope that the warm smiling spirit of the Big Easy will remain forever immortal.
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 7:33 PM UTC
A movie star died a day or two ago
She was 97.
She would to say hello to my mother
At evening musicals full of teenaged boys
that I lusted after years ago
She would wave and smile with sparkling eyes
I’d look at mother
“Why?”
Amused, she would say softly
“I don’t know!”
We would giggle together
A rare event
Mother was no chorine
nor wardrobe mistress
She did not peak in the 50s
She did not dance with her husband
under the moon at the Bel Air Bay Club
Her daughter did not write a pop song that oddly charted
She did not struggle to remain in the public’s imagination
They had nothing in common but perhaps a lovely face and a skill at survival
Mom could make her husband move her closer to Johnny on the dance floor.
Whichever direction, Dad obliged.
They locked down that school today
Warned by a rifle in a photo
Of an unstable football pro
These women are dead now
so none’s the wiser
“When you’re a victim of bullying, an option is revenge." said the alumna.
“Just a precaution,” replied the school.
Mother would have been 97 this year as well.
Maybe they’ve met again,
two streaks of illuminated emptiness
Engaging with reservations
Over fitting in and going insane
Over the low self-regard in a champion
or
Being lost at sea.
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 5:26 PM UTC
I,
Am a teenaged girl
Lost between the deminsions of
Fantasy
And
Reality.
I am a Filipino and Mexican
Knowing no spanish
Lost in a language my mother has forgotten.
I am what it means to be a human being.
Trying my best to be there
Making zillions of mistakes that end up drowning me in the end.
Wanting to remember but always forgetting
Wanting to help but saying the wrong things at the wrong time.
Trying to find a place in the world
Only to end up being isolated like a lone wolf.
I am what it means to be a student,
Not loving the whole school system but trying her best to prove it wrong.
Educated by watching the world, day by day,
Philosophizing life
Analyzing the story lines that mean something
Surviving in a jungle we call High School
And day by day,
Struggling in classes just to pass it.
I am, what it means to be
not so smart, not stupid at all but
a hard worker, learning everything I can with the little time the school system provides.
So,
Who am I?
Well for starters,
To tell you who I am,
I'd have to spend the majoirty of my life writing a one hundred paged book,
With only one page that has one sentence of writing that says,
"Too much to say, ask me another day."
Who I am,
Is a teenaged-Filipina-Latina-video gaming-anime loving-poetry/story writing-girl
Who is always lost in her own world~
Dec 11, 2011
Dec 11, 2011 at 4:18 AM UTC
The local mall now has a Spenser’s Gifts;
I remember that place fondly as Al and I
make our way.
It’s where I sneaked a peek at Samantha Fox’s ****
for the first time,
saw my first **** ring,
wondering why anyone would want one.
I bought my first Metallica shirt at a Spencer’s;
spending twenty of my dad’s dollars.
Spencer’s and Record Wear House
were sanctuaries;
my escape from what my classmates
took for normal.
I took my son into that store
so that he could see the X-Men hats
and Deadpool shirts, the banana and pickle
pens caught his eye,
but I had to point out one more.
“What’s that one?” I asked.
Alex made a face, but in the end
he did what any 14 year old boy should,
he chuckled.
I took him in that store so that we both
could escape.
Earlier he walked the mall
a good fifteen feet ahead of us.
We stopped for ice cream.
He chose a soda and wouldn’t sit with us.
It took a second, but
I figured him out.
He was trying his teenaged self out;
testing his wings.
As we walked, he’d wave at classmates
and be either sturdily ignored or given a cursory nod.
It was obvious that he wanted so much more.
It pained us, my wife and I.
So, I took him into Spencer’s gifts
in an effort to remove some of his innocence and awkwardness.
It may not have been the wisest move,
but at least, for a moment,
both of us felt peace.
-JB CLaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2014
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
i didnt know
that my cousins birthday party was today and so
i shoved bleeding legs into jeans
and pulled a plaid shirt over the
parts of my skin that are wide open
and i
ate the safe things and pressed tears back into the dark
circles below my eyes
found a scale upstairs and pale blue display pulled me in
i dont know any of the things that the
teenaged girls one year older than me
think
im just a fractured kid
one year younger than them
but worlds apart
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 9:54 PM UTC
She worked in the market
She sold flowers and jewellery
but, nobody there knew her name
With fifty young vendors
Of flowers and jewellery
Each teenaged young girl looked the same
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
The child like lilt to her voice
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
Or the way that she blushed for the boys
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
They all could be one and the same
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
or her hair, or her smile or her name
She was hitch hiking home
From the market one night
A car pulled on up for a ride
He told her he'd take her
If she needed a lift
It was cold, so the girl got inside
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
The child like lilt to her voice
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
Or the way that she blushed for the boys
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
They all could be one and the same
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
or her hair, or her smile or her name
No one has seen her
She's been gone for three days
She never arrived at her home
Nobody saw him
All cars look the same
And besides he was travelling alone
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
The child like lilt to her voice
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
Or the way that she blushed for the boys
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
They all could be one and the same
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
or her hair, or her smile or her name
The market still bustles
With sellers of flowers
Where everyone looks, shops or buys
But, something is missing
A young girl is gone
The girl with the smiling blue eyes
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
The child like lilt to her voice
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
Or the way that she blushed for the boys
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
They all could be one and the same
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
or her hair, or her smile or her name
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 8:51 PM UTC
Imagine yourself a red ceramic Poppy,
placed with care into the English soil.
One hundred years ago you were a soldier,
a frightened teen in a chaotic world.
You’d been sent, by King’s command, into the battle-
A mindless melee John French thought he’d won.
Perhaps some yards of France had been reclaimed
at a mind numbing cost of mothers’ sons.
You were one of those shot, gassed or burned.
Hit by a shell and blown to kingdom come.
(In ‘fourteen they had funerals for the fallen.
Mass burials became the norm before Verdun.)
That’s how you went from the playing fields of Eton
to an unmarked grave somewhere in Northern France.
So now you are a red ceramic poppy,
a symbol of an Empire, now passed.
Placed in English soil by teenaged hands.
one of nine hundred thousand home at last.
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 6:08 AM UTC
I’ve had this red heart shaped locket
for 12 years now.
I got it as a gumball prize
at a rundown Chinese restaurant
(maybe in Germantown?)
A lot of the paint has chipped off
and the tiny keys to it are long gone.
What shows beneath the paint
is shinny tin.
When I was a tacky teen
I would wear it clasped around my
neck imitating Sid but not
knowing it.
I always wanted someone to give me
something like this
but I impatiently jumped the gun and
cranked the dial of the machine
myself,
and the tiny Valentine rolled out.
(SINCERELY, YOURS TRULY)
No sentiment to share.
Now I’m nearly 30
and it hangs on my key chain,
a teenaged 50 cent memory
amongst adult responsibility.
If you see me standing crossed arm at a show,
and spy my red locket,
know that I’m an advocate of
living in the past,
and harboring silly passions.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 1:24 PM UTC
Cracked vinyl bus seats
Windows that have heard the stories of every passanger smeared with truth
The spit of the elderly woman who fell asleep while reminiscing about the son whom she's visiting that she hasn't seen in 35 years
The stubbled cheeks of the older gentleman who is counting the pennies in his pocket on his way to the store to get food for his daughter
The knitted scarf of the middle-aged woman who is slowly pulling her coat closer to her in an attempt to warm herself because it was the only article of clothing she could afford that year
The ponytail of the teenaged girl who is tracing the scars on her wrist from the last time she tried to end her life
They congregate for a common purpose, but
The doors to their hearts open like the hinged door, letting anyone haphazardly stumble in for a moment,
And
Their souls are brighter than the lights of the megabus as they are honest with themselves for even just a minute
And their walls are temporarily demolished because who would ever have to lie about who they are on a greyhound bus?
Smooth polished church pews
Floors that have been tread upon by every saint stained with lies
The flats of the elderly woman who is nodding off while pretending to pray for the son whom she hasn't spoken to in 35 years
The loafers of the older gentleman who is calculating the amount of money he can sneak from the spagetti dinner fund without getting caught
The high heels of the middle-aged woman who is slowly pulling up her skirt on one side in an attempt to catch the attention of the younger men further down the pew, while her husband holds her hand on the other
The tennis shoes of the teenaged girl who is tracing the bruises under her blouse from the last time she started a fight with her boyfriend
They congregate for a common purpose, but
Their masks are painted on more elaborately than the Sistine Chapel
And
Their lies are built up more intricately than the stained-glass windows that surround them
As they read their words to live by from a book collecting dust in drawers throughout America because who could be anything but holy in a church?
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 12:46 PM UTC
Hold me close, I'm a walking cliché
Flitting around in Converse sneakers
And that stupid old army jacket
Bet me $5 I could go for an hour
Without my lips uttering
*"Consumerism, capitalism,
Elitist ***** -the usual ********
And I'll lose
Hold me close, I'm a stupid teenaged kid
Stomping around my room saying
"Can't they just listen for a change?"
And slamming doors to prove a point
And when I go to house parties
I'll sport my trusty skull shirt
Just so they know without a doubt
I'm different from them
Hold me close, I'm running around
Like a chicken with its head cut off
Running my mouth like a politician
And spewing my thoughts like a hippie
I'm a ****** hypocrite and it kills me
But I'll just lay awake at night and think
*"How are they content with living this way?
Like hamsters in a wheel? Dogs in a cage?"*
Then tomorrow I'll sit down
And reread the same old poems
To make me feel okay
Hold me close, I'm an idiot kid
and I just want to be someone
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 1:32 AM UTC
After the painting by Fritz Von Uhde (1848 – 1911)
Sophie is twelve
Hanna thirteen
dear pinafored girls both
home from school
this summer afternoon
they sit knee to knee
but far enough away
from mothers’ chatter
at tea on the terrace.
The girls have gossip of their own
to share and talk is ten
to the dozen (and more)
whilst Hanna turns the pages
of a story book (with pictures):
a woodcutter’s daughter
a handsome young squire
ensnared with love
by a magiced white owl
there’s a castle by a lake
an endless forest dark
a mountainous domain
so far away so long ago.
Poised in the doorway
of their teenaged years
our girls imagine
the courteous attentions
of uniformed cadets
who one day soon
may very well sit
at the garden table
in the dappled shade
and silently gaze with longing
on their oh so delicate charms.
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 1:15 AM UTC
This isn't a story
about how I overcame a past demon
or how I beat the bully with the power of friendship,
because you and I both know
that didn't happen.
I don't want this to be another sad teenaged story
about how my boyfriend broke up with me
or how my best friend kissed my crush.
This is a story about how
I was born an unlucky kid
who I was blessed with
tears instead of smiles,
who has more love for other
than for herself,
who is more willing to die
than to live.
I'm just an unlucky kid
who debates whether to live life
or to end it.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 2:07 PM UTC
Know-it-all revelation celebration deflated with a
"no you ******* don't"
Cartesian cliche quotation.
So imagine mom's elation when she finally shut the **** up and moved up in conformist ranks
set trends and bred friends.
Thanks!
Thanks friends. Without you I'm just some pearly whites,
a sundress and a skewed perception of what is wrong and what is right
Future bright, like some little paper lantern glowing
but if the flame kisses pulp than than just gulp and take up sewing.
Because you're growing with the notion you're just some fish up in the ocean attracting fish nets with fishnets floatinghopingchoking
Choking on your words over 3 syllables it's a drag
I'm feeling bad
for the fact that I'm a man
**** you dad.
A slight ephebophillic fascination for the fairy folk
Till she spoke, and ruined the illusion I was going for
Little girls turned shiny objects
auctioned off to flyest bidder
Quit her after several children, physical evidence you did her
Hit her too, I feel the burden bared by my sister,
hung on the bottom rung just because her organs are within her.
teenaged girls are wasted on the their Y possessed cohorts
***** and ****** so guess what? your mother was a ***** too
Our system's banging **** ******* "get money" funny we weren't singing that song getting tucked in by our mommys
Nov 3, 2011
Nov 3, 2011 at 11:26 AM UTC
A man and a woman come across,
If the man displays his ability.......
Start the ideal circle of human life,
If woman takes interest in him......
They both woo & ****** each other,
If succeed they make happy love.....
That woman after getting pregnant,
Rolls back into herself till delivery....
Whenever a baby is born anywhere,
It grows up groomed by its parents...
As a baby it is so helpless on its own,
It generally makes a noise for itself..
Then the human becomes a little kid,
Innocence filled face looks so divine.
A teenager sprouts non-visible wings,
The human realizes that it's special..
Teenaged souls fly across all lines,
Disregarding any type of border...
Entangling cobwebs of this world,
Try to limit all the human souls....
Disentanglement is a taxing job,
Not all teenagers grow freely.....
They step into adulthood,
And often so maturely......
They just succeed in love,
Start circle yet again.......
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC
i am a product
of this
society
i pick-pocketed
my personality
from a ghastly array
of tv shows
and teenaged drama
if you would like a re-run
of last night's
late night
sitcom
i'm at your service
i am a product
of this
society
if you want some fashion advice
from me
because i dress
so well
log on to
pinterest
they'll tell you
exactly
what i would
because everything i wear
no matter how weird
or ugly
i wear because
they told me
to
i am a product
of this
society
i do not
think for me
i have an iphone
that has replaced
the normal functions
of my brain
it remembers everything
for me
i know everyone
we talk
all the time
i text
really fast
i'm so connected
i mean,
i'm plugged into
everything...
i am a product
of this society
my thighs
don't touch
and a lovely
mountain ridge
adorns
my back
a cavern
in my
belly
come explore
me
a beautiful
bony
product
of this
society
I AM A PRODUCT OF THIS SOCIETY
and you all should really stop blaming me
for being a social deviant
for being unwilling
to conform
to this new normal
sanity isn't
statistical
and this isn't
1984
meaning:
just because a billion people
do this ****
it doesn't make it
right
doesn't make it
make
sense
i will not hold onto your tail
and follow you
blindly,
society
because you don't know
where the ****
you're going
anyway
if we progress
one more step
we'll all be
dead
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 9:37 PM UTC
The problem is I do like him.
I certainly hate him
But I also like him.
I like the way he capitalizes the beginnings of his sentences over text, I like the cute little crinkles that appear in his forehead when he smiles
The coy way he responds to flirtation with something like "Oh really now?"
I like how he calls things "sweet", the way he says "aww" I even f!cking like his annoying as hell overuse of the phrase "haha" when he texts which ****** me off,
I like how he is the only teenaged boy I know who says something is "quite" fun and how he uses the word "lovely" to describe things because no one uses that word anymore and more people should.
I like how he has an immense love for Spiderman,
How he has all these aspirations of travelling all over in the future
I like how he wants to live in England one day, I like that he is into cooking and drinks coffee and hot chocolate and how his favorite book is "Looking for Alaska" and how he's read everyone of John Green's books and how he wants to be a writer one day.
I just remember the dumbest little things that I still like about him
For instance how he likes Neil Gaiman and loud screamy music even though I hate that stuff, how he is the only one in his fractured family who doesn't speak French but his older sister and mother do. He has a dog named Charlie and when he was a kid he always spelled "subtle" wrong. I just don't know *** is wrong with me I should have known better. I should hate him for half this stuff and all the rest of the reasons I have to loathe him but it's hard to forget those little details about him. I just hate feeling like a broken lock. A lock of dark secrets and completely irrepairable. Though it's not the fact that Im irrepairable that bothers me as much as feeling so... replaceable. Idk. Maybe I need to go out with someone to get him out of my head.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 6:30 PM UTC
brain dead for years
with a tin man’s ticker
lost in teenaged conveniences and comfort zones
walking through day dreams in the fetal position
tinnitus’ tones drowning out the music in my head
feeling like puzzle pieces forced together when they don’t really fit
like Frankenstein’s monster
limping and grunting through High School
struggling through classes with some zombie’s ears
ditching often to go to the bowling alley
graduating unprepared in an inverted reality
with polluted brown skies and a blue world
wearing the same blue shirt and blue jeans everyday
wrapped up tight like a blue eggroll
futility’s fortune cookie foreseeing only deafness and poverty
hating life and self –EVERYDAY!
then, somehow, a song crept under the veil
seeping through my tough outer veneers
it’s lyrics melting a hardness in my chest
it’s music coursing through my body like chi
exciting my Brownian motion
a simple message of finding oneself
delivered in powerful, rich, soulful baritone
stamped with profound, moving emotional range
inflection mounting upon reflection
it’s chorus and theme reverberating
I played that record over and over again
listening with my toenails
I decided right then and there to give it a try
that “learning to love yourself”* is a good thing
and that ‘good thing’ was who and what I wanted to be
Mar 24, 2012
Mar 24, 2012 at 10:53 PM UTC
a little girl, perhaps 5-6, sits in the meadow and picks flowers. she picks the flowers slowly, meticulously. she looks up and sees a beautiful teenaged girl, with a long flowing dress and short hair with splotches missing. the teenager sits with the little girl. "what happened to your hair?" the little one asks.
**"once upon a time,
I picked flowers just like you.
but I picked them all."**
the young girl listens and keeps picking her flowers.
**"I met a boy who
promised I was beautiful
and made me feel so."**
the teenager begin taking the flowers and winding them together. she grabs her knitting needles out of her handmade purse and continues working on a hat to keep her hands busy.
**"he always told me
that my head was too pretty
for me to be sad."**
"Did he love you?" the little girl asks, playing with her hands.
**"perhaps he did, but
he never said that he did.
he never told me."**
**"after I ran out
of flowers, I began pull-
ing my long hair out."**
"please don't end up like me." the teenager says, handing the girl the hat.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
the small wisp of heart i have left
was almost wisked away with the dismissal in your face.
the dismissal of my family
a thing that you have no right to write off
like a shopping list of things
you already bought
i don't give a single **** for your teenaged melodrama
it's a holiday
and i wanted a ******* photo
of the stretched scrap of a family that i have left
why couldn't you just let me have one thing
that felt normal
you are a selfish ******* *******
just like our mother
write all the mean poetry you want
about how twinkling lights
and family photos get old
you cut my arms with the things you write
little sister,
you should be ashamed.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 12:56 AM UTC
Reverting back to my teenaged years
I pressed a razor into my thigh
I liked the way the blood
Mixed with the raspberry & vanilla
Suds in the bathtub
To make this ombré
Of maroon fading
To peach
My brain's been itchy
For weeks
I am overwhelmed
And imaginaing
The bathtub
With no bottom
Drowning
In a ceramic hole
That leads nowhere
My body
Wrapped
In
Raspberry
And Vanilla
Soap suds,
And my hair
Wet
And long
Between my
Shoulder blades
I wanna be
As pretty
As the ocean,
A perfect shade
Of baby blue,
With navy
And purple
Accents
In the deepest
Spaces
And I wanna be
Just as infinite
As the ocean,
Incomprehensible
To the modern
Human mind,
Everlasting
& Impossible
Went to take a bath
In a room with no windows
Disappeared
Without a trace
And no one will ever know
The bottom is an illusion
There is so much more
Beneath,
To dive in
Or die in
my mind
UNRAVELS
and lands here
At the brink
Of reality
And delusion
And I stay here
Because it's easy
And it's kinda silly
And no one is angry,
Not even me
But eventually
The water
Runs cold
And I start to feel
My
Heart beat
In my finger tips
And as I take the trip
Back to my body
I dread the dizziness
I know is waiting
On the other side
Cause I cut too deep
And now I have to
Explain myself
In the back of
An ambulance
And,
And,
And,
"Morgan,
Aren't you too
******* old for this?"
Oh,
How I'm homesick
Homesick
Inside of myself
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 1:19 AM UTC
There were times when I thought
For sure
That the feast of reality,
An all-you-can-eat buffet for the senses,
Was surely a mirage
In the thirsty desert of my cloudless mind.
Sometimes,
All I could do was lick my lips,
Rub my hands and scheme
Because it seemed
Too good
To be true.
I called your name
Once or twice;
The first time to see if you were there
And the second
Because I liked the way it tasted
On my insatiable teenaged pallet.
At first, it tasted like cheap ***
A sweet burn,
But enough to draw out the fine
Delicate strands of truth.
One kiss:
I'm fine.
Two:
The gears are loosened.
Three and I suppose the rest
Is history.
I am no lightweight,
But the words went straight to my head
And I am warm now--
Warm the way thieves are
When they steal
Supper,
Warm the way nuns are
When they smoke their
Cigarettes.
Warm because it's the idea
That something so wrong
Is now a basic necessity.
It's not so wrong, though.
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 1:30 PM UTC