Teenage Angst: A Poetic Exploration Of My Prepubescent Years And Those Who Had To Put Up With Me (By Black Lipstick) Poem by D Burke

Chapter 1: Dear Darkness: A poem from my 13 year old diary that should probably be burned at some point so no one ever reads it.

Dear Darkness (aka diary) ,

My soul falls into the abyss.
Heavier, heavier, heavier, it falls
Further, further, further,

further.

Dark bells ring loudly in the steeple of my soul.
ding. dong. Ding. Dong. Ding! Dong! DING! DONG! DING! - -
'Get out of my room, mom, Gah! I'm doing something! '

Where was I? Oh yeah.

Ding. Dong. Ding. Dong...
My eyes are heavy with sleeplessness.
They burn with the intense heat of a thousand summers.

Maybe it's all the eyeliner.
I'm not really sure.
(I am the queen of all things deep.)

Curse you, sunlight!
Go away and,
Leave me BE and let me SEE the night.
Not your BRIGHT...LIGHT, in my...SIGHT.
(God, you are an artist.)

'OH MY GOSHHHHH, MOM. GET OUT! ! !
I'M EMOTING! ! ! No, mom, I don't need to sleep---'

Sleep? Sleep. Sleep. Awakened... Sleep
Awakened soul of unconscious sleep.
(God...that's good.)

Anyway, I better get going.
It's 3 AM and my mom is totally bitching out on me.

Sincerely,
(Queen of all things deep.)

P.S. Mysoulislikeablackravencryinginthenight. Ca-cah!


Chapter 2: Middle School Haiku Assignments:
#1: 'Your eyes are deep blue oceans/Don't look at me.'

When he looks at me
1 2 3 4 5
I feel so alive
1 2 3 4 5
I feel so---
1 2 3
I feel so alive and---
1 2 3 4 5
I feel---
1 2
I feel so alive inside
1 2 3 4 5 6 7

Yes.

He's so smart and pretty.
1 2 3 4 5 6
He's smart and---
1 2 3
He is so---
1 2 3
He's so---
1 2
He's---
1
He's so smart and cute.
1 2 3 4 5

Middle School Haiku Assignments:
#2: 'The Girlfriend'

When she held your hand
1 2 3 4 5

I wanted to break her nose.
1 2 3 4 5 6 7

But Britt said not to.
1 2 3 4 5

Middle School Haiku Assignments:
#3. Haiku Party!

Haiku party! ... Yeah!
1 2 3 4... 5

Just chillin with my homies
1 2 3 4 5 6 7

Five, Seven, and five.
1 2 3 4 5

Chapter 3:
Heavy Breathing: A master class on the fine art of sass.

*Sighs heavily*

*Sighs heavily and stares ahead blankly*

*Refuses to speak.*

*Rolls eyes and aggressively shifts weight from one hip to another.*

*Crosses arms in stereotypical teenage fashion accompanied by a small expulsion of air.*

*Sighs heavily*

*Sighs heavily again*

*Sighs heavily again*

*Starts to say something*

*Aggressively expels air.*

*Sighs heavily.*

*Sighs heavily*

*Sighs heavily*

*Sighs heavily*

*Sighs heavily*

*Sighs heavily*

Chapter 4: And She's Still Holding My Hand (For Mom)

And we applaud as she stands weeping,
rehearsed tears rushing down her painted face. 
She smiles and laughs and cries as,
gorgeous creatures surround her in a counterfeit embrace,
millions of people pouring out affections to the fairest of the fair. There she is. 

And this is our perfect ideal of grace 
and beauty 
and perfection.

And I smile like everything,
because I know the truth:
That grace and beauty and perfection live on the inside of my mother's smile.
That 'unconditional' begins with the memory of my tiny hand wrapped up in hers.
And first steps come and go, and little girls with wobbly knees grow
Into bigger girls with flimsy hearts,
a world apart from spelling bees and Hogwarts. 
And she's still holding my hand. 
We applaud as he waves to a crowd of thousands,
Rehearsed words falling out of a gaping mouth.
And he wears his red, white, and blue and says things like I do,
solemnly swear,
millions of people pouring out affections to the most powerful man in the world. 

He is but a polaroid yet this is our perfect ideal of strength,  
and intellect,
and ambition,  
so help us God.

And I smile like everything,
because I know the truth:
That strength is alive inside the things my mother doesn't say.
When others play their game of 'What's your last name? ' and
'Who do you know? , '
She is a portrait of strength.
And I learned the most valuable lessons inside the deafening sound of her silence:
Grace is not a thing that we earn, and so it is not ours to keep. 
And she's still holding my hand.

I stood with my friend, phone in hand, and waxed rhapsodic about a person I've still never
met. Lest we forget how awesome Miley Cryus is. 
She was the perfect ideal of everything I wanted to be.

And I smile like everything,
because I know the truth:
That every harsh word I hurled at my mother was traded evenly for inexplicable empathy.
When the fire behind my eyes burned and bruised hearts, she drew closer and loved stronger.
And now that I've traded angsty diaries for college applications,
I see my perfect ideal clearly. 
So I close my eyes and brace for the unknown.
I do so willingly because beauty, strength, and ambition are alive inside each memory of her.
 
And she's still holding my hand.