it's the 30th kid, and another sunken evening has taken place.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
drunken faces
white out
on words
we never really meant.

good hello
good bye
good morning
good night.

my words usally don't make much sense.

*photo uploaded, taken by me.
do not steal, please.

Submitted: December 30, 2006

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Submitted: December 30, 2006

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it seems these days
that everyone has been bitten
by the emo bug.
my friends these days
seem to hate themselves
their bodies
the things that make them
so strangely unique
and beautiful.
suicidal conversations
and promises
that we know
will be broken.
suicidal conversations
and angry voices
in the background.
suicidal conversations
and hopes
of so called
"better days"
i'm rambling.
i shouldn't be.
but i am.
it's my birthday,
fifteen years old,
standing on the bridge that links,
childhood and adulthood.
i am fifteen  years old,
my mascara leaks.
i am fifteen years old,
and i'm wearing my aunts
long, green, velvet gown.
i'm drowning in it.
i'm too short for it.
i'm too, young for it.
but i'm wearing it.
i'm sweaty in places i never knew
it was possible to sweat in.
not only am i drowning
but i'm falling
falling
i'm falling dear, but oh, i'm so happy.
ecstatic.
blissful.
nimble fingers scatter across
contaminated keyboards.
radiohead, and a bloated stomach.
radiohead, and limited experience.
twists and turns, butterfly churns,
dance, dance, again in your stomach.
i am fifteen years old,
and my body aches in happiness.
i am fifteen years old,
and i'm wearing my grandmothers black coat.
i am fifteen years old,
and my hair is screwed up,
like someone inappropriately touched
a wild monkey.
hold, hold, hold.
and here i go again
switching back from radiohead
to deathcab.
i'm happy, silent,
withdrawn.
happy, silent.
like a hermit crab
i want to cry.
laugh.
cry, cry, cry.
laugh.
who says i can't do both.
who says i can't dream, and dream, and just
dream?
my nail polish is chipped
three weeks old.
my lips, dry.
i've got cuts on my knee from my rabid cat.
but i love her.
i don't know why she's even in my head now,
but i love her.
love?
love.
love?
love.
here i go again,
stating absolutely nothing sensible.
and this is what i call poetry,
our crooked teeth collide with
untouched tongues
slurring words
as stars merge
and moons submit to the sun
the planets are our senseless excuses.
might you tell me why you have bruised
your mothers left eye
and your daughters unconscious mind?
do you sin, ma'am?
i do, sir.
i do.
do you sin little girl?
i do, sir.
indeed, i do sin.

in our minds of profanity,
we are nothing but tools of war.


tumbling
timbling
toombling
into
a little abyss
we tend to call
time and age.
indifferent, i suppose, i am fifteen years old.


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