The Good Kind of Dorky


Friday, January 05, 2007

In Keeping with the Theme of Teenage Angst or A Lesson in Cliche

In drudging up the past I discovered some tid bits of literary genious. I may have mentioned that I write (or should I say should wrote?) poetry. I may have also mentioned that I wrote poetry during my teen angst phase in life. For you, my readers, I went searching through my electronic files for these priceless gems (if I do say so myself). I bring you now the lamest poetry ever written. Let me also preface by saying that I had an amazing, healthy and even over-protected childhood. The complete fabrication that you are about to read is brought to you today by my dramatic, active, teenage imagination. Enjoy!

Hair on my legs stands up,
I slowly submerge myself into the lukewarm water.
I tightly grip the bar of Zest,
it slips through my fingers,
I feel for it under the bubbles.
I scrub fiercely,
along the contours of my body.
I scrub off the blood,
the water gradually turns rose.
Why did I do it?
She was my wife.
I must leave town now,
I must leave my life,
everything I have must be put behind me.
I yank on the chain,
pull the drain stopper out,
bloody water whirls,
a tornado of truth.
Water can wash away blood,
but never the weight of guilt in my soul.

I run through the darkness,
leaves slash my face as I dash through the forest,
I pant from lack of oxygen,
my heart lodged in my throat.
I hear him shouting not far behind,
fear fills my blood,
my scraggly red strands of hair whip my cheeks.
I want to be in bed,
all safe and sound.
I thought I trusted him,
I should have left him,
I never knew.
A gun shot punches through chilled air.
I pick up speed,
so does he.
I feel a vine of fingers grasp my ankle,
My scream is suffocated by the forest.
I see myself descending to the ground,
though my eyes are closed.
I see his bloody, drunken face,
I smell beer on his breath.
I see anger streaming in his eyes,
bitter and sweet and sour,
all at the same time.
I am in another world now,
his world.
I see a bullet shooting into my skull,
I feel nothing now.


The night closes in on her,
she runs,
shadows bounce playfully among the weeping willows.
A salty tear runs down her cheek,
among the blood, sweat, and dirt.
She’s scared but feels safe
as she lays down,
among the cool moss of the August night.
Now she’s hidden,
away from the world,
away from alcohol,
away from drugs,
away from addiction,
away from obsession,
but most of all,

away from tomorrow.

1997 called. They want me back. Something about a Pulitzer.


  • At 3:03 AM, Blogger Sarah said…

    Umm hell yeah something about a Pulitzer! Your dramatic, active, teenage imagination coulda paid a few bills I think.

    Do you still write poems?

  • At 8:10 AM, Blogger Sarah said…

    LOVE the pink and brown. LOVE, LOVE, LOVE it!

  • At 10:10 AM, Blogger Lindsey said…

    Sarah--I do still write poetry, but not very often. I am so rusty my poems would probably sound like the ones I posted, except happier.

    Holy crap, my word verification to comment on my own blog is OBGYN, I shit you not.

  • At 11:33 AM, Anonymous Motherload said…

    It would appear someone watched a few too many horror movies???

    I like your new page colors. Very sexy. The photo you are using is SO you... through 'n' through. One of my favs.

  • At 11:57 AM, Blogger Bones said…

    I don't know what it is, but I don't understand poetry. It's not that I havn't tried. I've read everything from Emily Dickenson to Shell Silverstein. I've even committed a handfull of poems to memory (Robert Frost, Charles Dickens, and a few others) I feel like I'm a smart guy and I can string words together as well as the next person. But, for whatever reason, I just dont get poetry. I rarely read a poem and get transported the way I might with music, photography, a painting or something as simple as a smell.

    I want to - I keep trying. But I just don't get it. It's like some kind of wierd caculus or organic chemestry. I can read all the words, and I know what they mean, but they just don't click with me the way they do with most people. I feel like im missing out on an entire world the way people who dont like fish miss out on some of the best things that food has to offer.

  • At 11:46 AM, Blogger Frema said…

    "Water can wash away blood,
    but never the weight of guilt in my soul."

    I think this should be your new tagline.

    Also, I also have pages and pages of angsty teenage poetry. Maybe one day I'll force them on you!

  • At 4:34 PM, Blogger Carrie said…

    I like the suffering one.


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