Poems from Yesteryear

I looked through an old flashdrive today, where I stored some of my writings from over a decade again. I was a voracious poet in high school,  constantly writing. I used to hate looking back on them, but now, 10-11 years later, I find it remarkable how many still reflect the way I feel about the world. Some of them don't, especially the ones that have to do with being lonely and wanting love, but many of them still capture the way I experience emotion and the way I see the world around me. So I am going to post several of the poems I wrote in high school for you today, I hope you like them. 


This one is one of my father's favorites. 

Colors

Red Slithers,

Black shivers,

Green grins mysteriously.

Blue watches,

Brown blotches,

Pink preens surreptitiously.

Gray cowers,

Purple overpowers,

Yellow raises arms to the sky.

Manila complains,

Orange stains,

White flies high.

These next ones are good examples of how I saw the world around me as a teen.  I was apparently even a sociologist back then! 

6/13/00 

Poverty #2

In the city poverty

Is a nauseous rot-

Appearing,

Disappearing

In the disturbed blink of an eye.

In the country poverty is aired out

Displayed

A show for all passerby’s

To avoid,

Uncomfortable with their suburban prosperity

In the midst of such degration.

But a city pretends

To be whole and alive

A leper in an Armani suit,

Dancing and drinking to the music of his own demise.

10 6/27/00 

Pursuit of Happiness

The piñata shop

The hair salon

The small dying businesses

On the wrong side of town

All trademarks of The Poor’s pursuit of happiness.

Far after Costcos and Walmarts ruled the earth,

There are still these paint-chipped

Dreams

With meager handmade merchandise

Shyly displayed on starving shelves.

They scream:

Do not let us die!

We are someone’s

Hope in the world!

We are all they have left!

It is our sparse business

Keeping them from the streets!

For what song will the world sing for them

 But that which they sing themselves?

 3/23/01 

It Starts Here

The Heavy-Hipped females

glide their way through the

Hormonal Crowds to

Rub their bodies against pubescents who

Sweat and sickly grin for

each party trying to find Romance

that they are too young for and will

ruin themselves before their prime and

Their heavy-hipped bodies will become

Heavy-Bellied with the illegitimates that were not on their Christmas lists,

Just like their mothers, lended to lust when love is scarce and abuse when attention is scarce and dance to the sickly tune of dirty beds and hearts too old for their owners.

And, one lighter one to offset all the intensity:

3/19/01 

Bicyclists

Bicycling breeds goats of men

With laconic wives missing

Stomachs and Rears

(Sweated off over years)

Bikers are wizened little drivers

(Like stones smoothed by rivers, indistinguishable from their vehicles)

They are nymphish pipe cleaners

Wound about metal

Feet encircling pedals and

Bodies so entangled

No cyclist remains,

Just tight spandex shorts and a

bouncy water bottle pedaling by…