Obviously not finished. But tell me what you think.
Politely pounding on the thick wall
That separates our two dissimilar rooms
Screaming something about being late and how it's
Always My Fault.
I picked a pile at random from my bedroom
Floor and began searching for my regular simple
Outfit that consists of a ripped pair of Levi's
And a too-large band tee that always smells like
Men And Cigarettes.
Converse is my way of life, and each morning
I grab one of the seven pairs I own, and lazily
Tie their mismatched laces while reading the
Years of graffiti I've scribbled into every crevice
With Black Sharpie.
Among dozens of posters that cover every
Damn inch of my white bedroom walls, sits
A vandalized mirror, in which I sneak a peek
at my reflection and glare at myself through the
Eye Pencil Markings.
I can't be bothered to find a comb and run
My un-polished fingers through two feet of
Purple-dyed hair, getting trapped in a tangle
Of damaged and split ends that I never give
A Shit About.
Today won't be a regular shitty sun-streaked morning,
Though, as the sun has not yet come out from behind
Thick musty clouds and I can taste salt from the nearby
Atlantic making my tongue crave sweetness that I know he
Will Satisfy Today.
His body is fragile and hopefully I'm the only person who holds
The possibility to exert pressure on it without hearing the
Glass of his eyes shatter while the threads of his skin delicately
Woven together rip loudly causing a sound that would force my
Heart To Deflate.
My disastrous morning leads to awkward lunch filled with
Brown paper bags and purple plastic trays strewn across
Dozens of rectangular tables that each seat twelve people
Who think of nothing but assignments, popularity, and
The Day's End.
The ninth period bell screams freedom
To all the anxious students who actually
Have somewhere to go after class like sports
Practice, but I simply trudge to my locker,
Waiting For Him.
Pale, smooth skin of my back from shoulder
To shoulder leans against the cold metal of
My persimmon locker while my legs are casually
Folded upon the tiled floor that was stepped
On All Day.
Tracing my index finger along a blue tile's flat
Edge, but in my mind I'm tracing the curves of
His features, from a naked ear to his perfectly
Chiseled jaw bone, his chin down to the nape
Of His Neck.
Upon opening my eyes, I squint into sunlight beaming
Through the window across the hall from my position on
The dirty floor and hear his subtle footsteps as he fails
To sneak up on me, but I always lovingly allow him to
Think He Succeeded.
It's not the kind of love that you find every day in high school
Where the popular boys and girls fit their beautiful bodies
Together and everyone else just sits and 'oh's and 'ah's at their
Incredible attraction and everyone wants to appear just as
Happy As Them.
We are the outcasts who walk the halls silently; listening to bands
Who yell and scream their disappointment and heartbreak loudly
Above bass, guitar, and a shirtless guy head-banging along with the
Pounding of the drums in front of him; and we are
Always Considered Ugly.
But in our minds we only see us sitting, our slender hands
Wrapped together in a tangle of fingers and palms
That always hate being apart and only wish that
They could stay mixed together
Without Any Remarks.
He stands and I put my toes on his as he pulls
Me up even though he lacks muscle but that's okay
With me because even with dirty unwashed
Hair I think that he is my hero
Draped In Chains.
Poetry by kaytee
Read 702 times
Written on 2008-10-28 at 03:24
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
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Print text
Pacey
I woke up to the sound of BrookePolitely pounding on the thick wall
That separates our two dissimilar rooms
Screaming something about being late and how it's
Always My Fault.
I picked a pile at random from my bedroom
Floor and began searching for my regular simple
Outfit that consists of a ripped pair of Levi's
And a too-large band tee that always smells like
Men And Cigarettes.
Converse is my way of life, and each morning
I grab one of the seven pairs I own, and lazily
Tie their mismatched laces while reading the
Years of graffiti I've scribbled into every crevice
With Black Sharpie.
Among dozens of posters that cover every
Damn inch of my white bedroom walls, sits
A vandalized mirror, in which I sneak a peek
at my reflection and glare at myself through the
Eye Pencil Markings.
I can't be bothered to find a comb and run
My un-polished fingers through two feet of
Purple-dyed hair, getting trapped in a tangle
Of damaged and split ends that I never give
A Shit About.
Today won't be a regular shitty sun-streaked morning,
Though, as the sun has not yet come out from behind
Thick musty clouds and I can taste salt from the nearby
Atlantic making my tongue crave sweetness that I know he
Will Satisfy Today.
His body is fragile and hopefully I'm the only person who holds
The possibility to exert pressure on it without hearing the
Glass of his eyes shatter while the threads of his skin delicately
Woven together rip loudly causing a sound that would force my
Heart To Deflate.
My disastrous morning leads to awkward lunch filled with
Brown paper bags and purple plastic trays strewn across
Dozens of rectangular tables that each seat twelve people
Who think of nothing but assignments, popularity, and
The Day's End.
The ninth period bell screams freedom
To all the anxious students who actually
Have somewhere to go after class like sports
Practice, but I simply trudge to my locker,
Waiting For Him.
Pale, smooth skin of my back from shoulder
To shoulder leans against the cold metal of
My persimmon locker while my legs are casually
Folded upon the tiled floor that was stepped
On All Day.
Tracing my index finger along a blue tile's flat
Edge, but in my mind I'm tracing the curves of
His features, from a naked ear to his perfectly
Chiseled jaw bone, his chin down to the nape
Of His Neck.
Upon opening my eyes, I squint into sunlight beaming
Through the window across the hall from my position on
The dirty floor and hear his subtle footsteps as he fails
To sneak up on me, but I always lovingly allow him to
Think He Succeeded.
It's not the kind of love that you find every day in high school
Where the popular boys and girls fit their beautiful bodies
Together and everyone else just sits and 'oh's and 'ah's at their
Incredible attraction and everyone wants to appear just as
Happy As Them.
We are the outcasts who walk the halls silently; listening to bands
Who yell and scream their disappointment and heartbreak loudly
Above bass, guitar, and a shirtless guy head-banging along with the
Pounding of the drums in front of him; and we are
Always Considered Ugly.
But in our minds we only see us sitting, our slender hands
Wrapped together in a tangle of fingers and palms
That always hate being apart and only wish that
They could stay mixed together
Without Any Remarks.
He stands and I put my toes on his as he pulls
Me up even though he lacks muscle but that's okay
With me because even with dirty unwashed
Hair I think that he is my hero
Draped In Chains.
Poetry by kaytee
Read 702 times
Written on 2008-10-28 at 03:24
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
|
Kathy Lockhart |
