Tag Archives: teenager

Clueless Vs. Real Highscool Living

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Welll, I saw Clueless for the first time. Thought I’d write up something Ironic because, frankly, I’m a bit upset the main character was never seen doing any actual schoolwork on camera.

“you sit around, waiting for the phone to pick up

and you know you were going to pick it up yesterday-”

the movies are all cha cha

while you sit around, dreaming on your bed,

a kaleidoscope picture from some hazy memory

from the movies that are so blase`

“when are we going to find out what Cheryl has to say?

she’s out at a movie!

doesn’t everybody go?”

I’m still surprised

because the fact is I’ve been sitting here with my

diary and my quasi- problems,

my days going past me and I’m hanging close to the walls

so close

just taking in deep breaths like I can’t

stand it anymore,

lie down on the bed and you

pretend that it’s all cha cha

it’s all cha cha–

“we’re at the movies, cheryl brings a coke and we’re all

snuggled up and we’re fashion plates, living under ferns and fronds”

meanwhile me and my diary in the real world are having nights out on our own

and I’m playing mind games with myself

and I’m getting stuck by the walls,

and in the shower stalls

and everything seems stuck for closeness

even without anything or anyone

being

remotely there

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry

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Talking To the Mirror/A Boy without a face

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The girl paces her bedroom. The sunlight from the picture window hits her bed, and the light is soft and hazy. She is daydreaming, and she wishes somebody would call her. That’s the idea, call him now, perhaps he’s there..no, well, he’s always so selfish, why bother? What a nice boy to talk to I always get a kick out of that voice that manner you know he’s always been after you, don’t you? Not the way he’s ben so distant, always in such a hurry to go. No, the bedroom is pink like bubblegum, look at the ceiling, look at the window, the larkspur, the mocking bird, the jay, the bluejay, the pine, cone firs, the brisling branches meeting her eye, she will spy-the phone is waiting, expect nothing, not the voice, not that manner, he will not be there, don’t expect a thing, but- is, a jolt- that voice, that manner, you know he’s always been after you, hasn’t he? He’s on the other line.

And he says hello.

Me: I like you

Him: I know

Me: you bastard!

Him: *smirks*

M: you know I love you

H: *stares awkwardly, unsure of what to make of my statement*

M: I do.

H: I know

(pause)

M: so, why haven’t you said hi lately?

H: they took away my phone, and, as you know, I have a bit of short-term memory loss

M: no you don’t, you’re just lazy dear

H: the two go hand in hand actually.

M: mm hmm. So are you going to call me?

H: no.

M: I hate you

H: no you don’t

M: no, you’re right, I don’t.

H: *smiles*

M: I really do love you

H: so you say

M: You’re talking, you’re always talking. Why do we always have to talk?

H: because we enjoy having meaningful conversations and discussing prevalent topics in our current society.

M: stop using such big words, they don’t fit you.

H: yes, they do

M: no they don’t.

H: so anyway, how is your life going?

M: I don’t know, it’s been hectic, and I mostly need some sleep. I slept twelve hours yesterday, it was epic.

H: *laughs* you silly girl, you.

M: (trying to ask questions) and how is your life dear?

H: Well, my family is being stupid, and I hate them. I also have to finish this project for science later. I have to go in like two minutes.

M: why?

H: because I’m going to get picked up really soon.

M: (sadly) okay, fine. Well, I’l miss you…

H: I’ll miss you too.

M: Goodbye dear.

H: Bye.

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

While I Contimplate Your Sanity

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when we saw of each other, i figured we lied

and that was the first thing that struck me as right.

 

the thing I’ve begun to ask is

what’s the truth behind your word is?

 

and all of this

which is

 

you lying

and me smiling

like a child.

 

what classifies a fib?

charm glib?

 

well

I’m beginning to tell

and boy, is it swell.

 

you have me like a butterfly

I’m stuck and I just need to try

 

it’s under the rocks that I sweat

it’s in the dirt I start to forget,

 

but you

sleek, smooth

powder proof

and gold tooth

 

that smile is like a slate

being drawn upon the grate

slowly un-knotting me

 

slowly

 

till

that  lie

seems  just right.

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

 

 

Why I Wish You Were Here

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why I wish you were here;

no one laughs like that. I miss laughing over jokes like that.

sometimes, i feel like no one has made my insides contract like that.

I need space, i need you. what to do….

An intelligent conversation? Maybe. They sound intelligent on the outside.

Someone says you got worse over the summer.

Why does it seem like you’ve gotten better?

(The words i say mean something,

but no one knows that.)

I have a question,

but you thought i was killing you.

its just a question

that means i love you.

(no one-

and i mean no one-

can smile like you do.

then again,

thats why i hate it all. )

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

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Grafting Rosmerta

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grafting
it was simple
I’d place the oil burners full of fat into the tree
and the branch would light up.
simple.

grafting.
i would take a lock of my hair
and braid it with yours
unmeditated
full, like a benediction
and whole, like love.

grafting
i might run like a kite and never find myself again
and my deep interior might grab at me and say
stay close
dont run away
be simple.
graft me back inside.

the milk and warm apples and pearl earrings
and my darling teddy bear and the conversations
the milk spilling sour and turning sour
the apples being eaten
and the teddy being torn
and the coversations empty.
I want to be at the edge of the forrest, braiding my hair and flying my kite
and breathing a cinnamon story of warmth.
do you think i know the truth?
why do you ask me questions, Dan?
I’m just twenty
i need some money
i want a bed full of straw and full of heady hearts
stringing along like electric parts
until its so bright i have to squint.
i am made of you
you, of me:
it is simple.
I am grafting a staircase to the underbelly
you shook, i shake
the world topples over
but we stay on mount balance,
never moving an inch
never feeling a pinch
grafted
and laughed
like bees filling up the cup
with sweet honey.
the rosemary fills my lungs,
and its time,
i realize,
to move on,
steadily,
like a grafted tree or branch:

like a whirlwind
the world is all moving sound and color
and i will hear you when i wake.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

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Aside

dear readers: “not your average day police claim” is NOT a true story, despite the fact that the places i mention do exist.

Kirsten had always dreamed of working at the post office or the county jail. Daily living and house chores were her bread and butter, and she craved it with a passion. Everything that was banal seemed to sing to her with an effervescent joy, and even the prospect of brushing her teeth filled her with a strange sort of wonder. Today was a Monday, and her school was having a taste of danger.
Wanted serial killer number twelve had just escaped from the Terre Haute Federal Correctional Complex and was passing through the small town. Kirsten did not like the sound of it at all- and not because she was afraid of menacing criminals, but simply because it was disrupting her average Monday drone.At the moment, she was fumbling around in the dark, musty classroom of Mr. Bingler’s English class, trying vainly to whisper a conversation to her friend, Nora.  Nora suffered from over twelve different illnesses, none of which Kirsten could pronounce or differentiate from one another, and all of which seemed perfectly plausible at any given moment. Nora’s favorite of the twelve was the piercingly white hair she acquired from living with Waardenburg syndrome.

Unfortunately, this ailment also left Nora with a very bad left ear, and blurry vision, which bore Kirsten’s whispering attempts quite fruitless. As mentioned previously, Kirsten also had the inability to remember all of the diseases Nora suffered from, and so she carried on whispering, unfazed by her friend’s lack of response. Andrew Klein, who sat next to Kirsten, was enjoying the awkward exchange between his fellow pupils. Most of the school knew of this unusual friendship, but had failed to communicate this knowledge to their peers, for fear that it would be considered unthinkable to speak of such lowly peasants, or-as they were affectionately called by the rest of the student body -“nerds”. This label, oddly enough, was not quite accurate in this case, despite The girls’ nebbishy outward appearances. Kirsten was failing three of her classes, and Nora was quite unable to work in the school environment at all. The disabled program at the school was unable to find a suitable category in which to place her, and had no option but to file her under the title of “hopeless case”.
Of course, in order to resume this saga of unusual proportions, one must be reminded of the horrors awaiting Kirsten and Nora’s hometown. As the students sat cramped and sweaty in the dank unlit classrooms of Alpine Mountain high school, the Wanted serial Killer (whose name was Artie) was sweeping across the city in a frantic rage. Fortunately, the townsfolk knew how to carry out the mandated precautions like the backs of their hands. They had all been trained at early ages on how to prepare for all types of disasters, due to the hard work and effort of the late Martha James Brawn (1875-1960), a nurse and educator at St. Mary-Of-The-woods College, and the pride and Joy of Terre Haute city.
Artie the serial killer was not that surprised to see that the place was in a state of great angst. He had escaped from prison on a dare. He spoke in a strange dialect not known to most city dwellers and was having a hard time communicating his situation to people. In reality, Artie was not trying to pose as a threat to anyone. The act of looting and thieving was second nature to him, almost the same as an impulsive reflex. No, on the contrary, he had been forced into most of his earlier gang activity and found it quite unfair for the government to rule him out as a real danger to anyone.
Or, as Artie would have put it “I had more friends nutted up than me most times. The whole thing is just a load of bum beef. All I got was a case of broke weak when they called me a cracker. They just made me do shit cause all I had was drag and they said they heard it a thousand times already. I put it on my skin!” The killer took the rest of the day committing crimes until he was captured fisherman named Gregory Ipswich, and was sent back to the Terre Haute Federal Correctional Complex, safe and sound. Kirsten could have sworn she had never been so happy.
Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

Not your average day, Police Claim — a fictional story by me, golden star poetry

Monolouge-Bad Influence

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I felt like writing a monologue today. Don’t ask me why.

BAD INFLUENCE

You wanna hear about it? Ok. So basically we had this big barn in the backyard when we were little and Emma would always pretend to be a chicken in there. And she would flap her arms out like an idiot and say things that chickens might say if they had brain cells. But she would scream. When we went into kindergarten it was the same torture all over again, only she wouldn’t let me speak. It was her game, she said. Eventually she just didn’t want us to be friends.  It was weird, you know, cause most of us would play in our little groups, and we didn’t, so it kind of made me feel special. But then she turned out to be some brat from the valley who had no clue on how to get by in school. She was like that all through Junior High even, I remember her getting three D’s and she didn’t even know it was a bad thing. She ended up going to Juvie or something. Wait, no, Sarah told me about that. Sorry,  that was a rumor. Anyway, I guess I’ve been used like that most of my life. And I never get any wiser after,  And then came the whole problem of relationships, which, on the whole, do make me want to gag. But Paul was different at first, you know? He loved me so much it was almost Ethereal. Well, that’s what Amy and Daisy and Leah all said about him. So that’s that one. And the rest of my girlfriends have all gone to become waitresses at some dump restaurant at I don’t even know where, and they’re just making minimum wage on the side so that they can even afford college. It’s sad, you know? My friends. I was the only one who ended up with a A in any of the classes they failed last year. No, actually, It’s pathetic. I can’t make friends with one  good person, and it’s really itching me to know why. Can you get the hell out of here?