Poetry I Wrote in High School 2: Revenge of the Poorly Written Verse

I’ve been having a spell of writers block, and while I was looking through my drafts to see if there was something I could just put the finishing touches on and move out, I found this, the second installment of my bad poetry from high school series. So, here it is for your enjoyment, the fruits of my adolescent turmoil.

Since we’re leaving for Oregon on Thursday morning, an I am literally in the middle of packing and cleaning as I type this (a task made so much more difficult because we couldn’t find our microphone cases and tore the house apart, to no avail,) it’s time for more terrible poetry from my youth. I’m sure you’re ecstatic.

We’re actually getting to a place with these that reproducing the whole thing isn’t a war crime, so these’ll be longer, but don’t worry, they’re still quite bad. Like this limerick about trying to get laid:

You make me ache
You touch my soul
The way my skin pricks
The way my stomach sicks

I think you can teach me
The things I forgot

Then it ends; no response
Left alone, and ensconced

With the doubt in the dark
No more you, I go without

I’ve gone before
It’s no big deal
Still the virgin
Never the whore

Always the mother
Umbilical cords
Tying me down

Cutting off air
Doing for others
Losing my hair

Drawing a lot
Head all in knots
Fucking myself
Looking for God

When I stop breathing
I’ll start to rot

In addition to taking the standard high school curriculum, I participated in an independent study program that focused on masturbation and self pity. My faculty adviser was Jello Biafra

If this isn’t how every day of high school feels, you’re doing it wrong.

Although I stay the way you left me
There is no part of you that knows me
You have since become a person
While I stayed a little child

Is it just me, or is that actually kind of good? It must be all this packing. I’ve got suitcase fever.

I think I have cancer
Miss you

I’m going to die
Before you get back
But maybe
You’ll die after me

And we’ll be reincarnated as Indian royalty
So we can speak with lovely accents
Being rich and together

We can go to college in England
And never come home
So we’ll have beautiful kids
With silly English accents
And we’ll both die together
In a fiery Metro crash

At least I’ll have one lifetime
With you always by my side

Not like this one
In which tomorrow
Will be our last


Me (turning page after page): “These are all so bad”
Ben: “Isn’t that kind of the point?”
Me: “Yeah, but this is a level of baddness that even I’m afraid to admit.”

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