If you're a bird, I'm a bird!

Because I am one lazy BAMF I've been shirking on my posts and copying my old poems and other such things to avoid having to think of a decent post for the interwebs. I promise this will end after this post because I have run out of poems. Yes, they made me and my friends laugh and hopefully made other readers smile, but flaunting my youthful stupidity has gone on long enough. Good-bye old dreams of literary fame!

However, this next and last poem I'm posting was my magnum opus, my chef d'oeuvre, my tour de force, the one I knew would propel me into the world of prose. It's a long one, but at age 14, my heart was full of long thoughts. The weird thing is I don't think I had a boyfriend at the time, so I don't really know what I was jabbering on about. Well, I was a wise one! I should have paid attention to my terrible metaphor several months later!

Clipped Wings (Winds of Delight)

I saw a bird

in the deep of the night

spread its white wings

and swiftly take flight.

I wept silent tears

for what never could be

for fate cruel and fierce,

and for those that fly free.

For once I was a bird,

white, perfect, and pure,

'til I was cast down

by Love's sweet allure

Drawn by things that might be,

by things that once were,

I threw caution to the wind,

and my life began to blur.

With promises half-kept,

and sweet words untrue,

I fought with myself,

tried to hide what I knew:

"True love should not

clip my wings of flight,

but should instead soar with me

as the winds of delight."

The Iron Burn of Civilization!

My language arts teacher freshmen year assured me if this got published, it would totally change the way young people thought about the environment. I now know better.

Breathing Todays Air

...Breathe in....

Car exhaust,

Cigarette smoke,

A hint of rain,

The metallic taste,

The iron burn

Of Civilization.

...Breathe out...

"The Iron Burn of Civilization" should be an of Montreal cover band that rewrites the lyrics to make them environmentally friendly. Reuse, Recycle, Repair your WASTED TIME.

roses are read, violets just blow

Danielle has been posting old and silly poems and although I am proud to say I never wrote shitty teenage poetry before (I have three more years to actually write a TEENAGE poem, after that they will only be shitty poems.) I think my diary entries are dramatic enough without the metaphors and vague word combination (think: the sunset of my eyes carry you home). I also figured that it is in my nature to be pretty straight forward with my thoughts and writing. I hate flowery nonsense. That being said, I was shuffling through my old journals and found something close to being a poem. So for the first time in history, the second half of Might Beluga reveals the poet inside:

She sleeps with feathers in her hair and wakes to find an illegible song she scrawled in the dark the night before. If only the ideas didn't fade before the lights turned on again. "I can't keep writing in the dark and one more flash with burn out the bulb"

I actually don't think it's that bad. But that's probably because I'm an arrogant motherfucker.

still can relate

Complete and utter garbage. But unlike some people I know, I can recognize garbage when I see it, and use it as entertainment. I don't delude myself, although my language arts teacher had circled the last three lines and wrote "Catchy!" on the side. I must agree, to be honest.

2 am

Late at night

(or is it early in the morning?)

I toss and turn.

Scenes wheel through my mind.

Forgotten places,

Forgotten faces.

None staying long enough in my mind.

These thoughts plague my mind,

Things I should've said, 

Things I should've done.

I cannot rest!

Oh how this nightly ritual

Do I detest!

Just Another Teen Poet (oh god)

This was written for my ex boyfriend who liked to smoke. I spent too much time on him at the expense of others. I don't really know how Mallory put up with me during THE LONGEST YEAR AND A HALF OF MY LIFE. My  rather pathetic excuse is that he was my first boyfriend.

On the background of this poem I sketched a very large and very angry white skull on a black background. It was probably expressing my hidden secret desire for him to be abducted by pirates so I wouldn't have to deal with his whining any longer.

Enjoy the unnecessary commas, parenthesis, and words that I bolded to make an impact. 

Just Another Teen Statistic

My love, you cannot see how you hurt yourself.

Your friends,

All those that love you.

I stand helplessly by,

As you sink lower,

In your own black tar-filled pit

(dug by your own hands.)

Your world narrows and narrows,

'Til you can't even see

The tears rolling down my cheeks,

As I silently mourn the birth

Of just another Teen Statistic.

-DP

Teen Angst

In my freshman year of high school, my language arts class had to create a poetry portfolio based of off William Blake's "Songs of Innocence and Experience." I remember penning these poems, anxiously waiting to receive praise for my creative genius that was hidden all along. I remember reading them over, all puffed up with pride over my poetic gems. I remember thinking, "Well if the whole international relations thing doesn't work out, at least I can be a poet and make millions because I am just that damn good." 

I was suffering from Teen Angst, a common disorder that afflicts most teens and thankfully recedes after those teens learn to "suck it up and grow a pair." Some don't. Rereading these poems, I am a little bit proud of the extreme level of deception that I managed to plunge myself into concerning my creative genius. However I am a lot more ashamed of mis estrofas terribles. I fully recognize the x-treme bullshit that I poured my heart and soul into.

Here is one for your mocking pleasure.

This Could Be Heaven or This Could Be Hell (recently dedicated to well-dressed boy in mine and Mallory's gym class. Mallory and I's gym class? Mallory and mine's gym class? wtf)

Our eyes lock

In the midst of our friends,

A half-smile already on my face,

A perfect mirror image of yours.

Suns rise, moons set;

Flowers bud, bloom, wilt, die.

Simultaneously we look away

As a thought flutters, unbidden,

Into my stunned, shaken heart,

And I can do nothing as it settles there,

Firmly making its home there.

But just as quickly,

Another thought creeps into my mind.

"This could be heaven or this could be hell."

-DP, 2004

More to come, oh so much more to come.

Bad poetry...oh noetry!

Some found poetry on the bathroom door. Very inspirational and moving, no?