Poetry I Wrote in High School 3: Okay, This Maybe Doesn’t Suck

So on my recent trip down memory lane, I dug up some of the worst shit my high school poetry journal had to offer, and much to my surprise, I found a couple of pieces that weren’t complete and total shit. Yeah, they’re not really my style anymore, but I liked them, so as an offering to the gods of my writer’s block, here they are for your reading pleasure. Pleasure’s a strong word. Anyway, here’s poetry.

April 11, 2003

I used to be a warchild
Hatred filled me up like a hungry dog
I used to think of you
What they did to your heart

Those strings of hypodermic lovers
Each taking so much
And giving so little

Grams of black tar
To fill up your eyes
And coat your veins

Your teeth are rotting now
And you live, zombified
Without men or needles

You work your job
And keep your home
But it’s always less
Than the rest of them have

Because the holes in your arms
Aren’t meant to be filled
With happiness

September, 2003

Bad, broken Spanish and big tits
This is what my ancestry has left me

Latin hips and chola mouth
Lip-lining long gone
Licked away by white boys

This poor branch
Never had to suffer
Like the roots

And ever do I suffer
For my lack of suffering

I am too much
And not enough

Never say I don’t know what it’s like
Y nunca mas vuelvas a despedirte de mi

I won’t come back next time
Bound to you like the earth you value so much

Like the crow and the highway
Miss your voice
Miss your eyes

Who is older
Girl or man
Artist or poet

When you write to me, apologize
And maybe I won’t grow away so fast


Someday I’ll have a house
With rooms to lure you into
And closets we can fuck in
With the Mormons at the door

So they can hear it and know
That God loves fuckers
As much as he loves them

You can never take what I don’t give you
But you know that it’s all yours if you just ask

In the morning we’ll go to work
Like all the other people
But in the night, take it all from you
And every day, give it all back

November 23, 2003

I want to write something to you, Rose
Bud, bloom, grow, and wilt
Drop your petals to the ground like blood

Fill up the air with your smell, unafraid
Start all over, bloom again, die again
Live forever, like a spirit

Stay sharp, rose
Don’t weaken

Always hurt the hand that grabs you
Try at least to draw some blood

Beautiful and angry
Grab my skirt as I walk past

Never let the world forget:
Behind the bloom, there is the thorn

January 28, 2004

Daydreaming in the parking lot
With my shirt half-way off

Beautiful is the wrong word
For what I have become

February 19, 2004

I am Marina’s violent death
I am her middle age

I’m everything you ever wanted
Twisted and deformed

I am the beach and the sky
I am your body in revold

I am the gaping birth canal
They replaced your precious cunt with

I’m even all the favorite words
You can no longer say

I’m a juicy, dripping twat
With motherfucking on my mind

I am the end

Every swim you take in the ocean
Every song that makes you dance
Every protest that you go to
Every other youth you fuck

Take a little bit and lock it up
Because this is what you become

Editor’s note: Obviously, I felt hopeful about my future.

This is how it always goes:

1. You think your heart belongs to her [right turn]
2. You can’t believe it’s got this far [right turn]
3. You’re leaving now without a word [right turn]
4. You see a girl across the room [right turn]