ANGST!!!
More of Kevin's angsty poetry. Why? Because that's all he'll let me write at the moment.
He has developed the desire to write tributes to people he meets on teen angst/"I'm going to kill myself" message boards. I have no clue why, but it probably comes from the same place as his vintage record player and collection of vinyl.
God was more real to her parents
than to her; instead, she had her
painted devils and viewed them with
eyes that had seen more than their
fair share of growing up. A split
second decision can change or
save, or even stain - black paint on
her ever-white dress and pancake
pale skin. The last thing they saw
was that she was too old to be a
flower girl but wore the little girl
clothes and crown anyway; they
never knew that her smile was more
fake than her sister’s tan. When her
spine bent, no one stopped to hear,
and the twisting went unnoticed.
When nothing else could help him,
innumerable angels left their places
in the white plastic woodwork, just
to bring the boy some peace. Halfway
there, they met a lean-limbed
herald of time well wasted, and together
they went from thence to liquid
Alzheimer’s. The local newspaper ran his
story, right next to the little league scores.
Though the exact details
of her death have become
the things of legend, we
remember her trivialities
and the most unfortunate
circumstances. They say
she went with red carnations
and that daisies declared
her innocence where she
could not. Lily of the valley
was, by all accounts, a
white spice in her Nordic
blonde. Poppies were the
merciful ones, gracing her
eyes with the greatest haze.
Rumor has it that twenty
roses grew in every color
from the soil of her grave,
but all the azaleas gave up on
life when their maiden died.
Sing, Muse, of a girl from the heartland.
Not some gussied-up, big city tramp like
she admired, but a beauty dazzling
in her rustic simplicity.
Recite or recount to me her smile,
all her pure white teeth perfectly
aligned. Were those dimples on her
rose-hipped cheeks, or were they the
indentations of fair Cupid’s fingers?
And tell me, fair one, of how she died,
how the pressure grew too great. But
speak not of the rope she used, or the
marks left upon her long, white neck,
just let the flawlessness speak for itself.
I loved her, Muse, that girl from the heartland,
though I only saw her through a
webcam. My only regret is that I
cannot join her. She had courage that
I couldn’t hope to hold.
Mother Earth has noting on my mistress
And Gaea’s beauty is but put to shame.
With good cause, Dulcinea does distress
And Juliet goes lost to cruelest game.
Her hair, in verdant splendor, shines,
Her eyes, in earthen brown, caress mine own,
Though intangible, she’s “oh-so-fine,”
And, from her arms, all pleasures can be known.
I don’t like the drugs? O, you waste your words!
Only when she’s here can I be said to love!
When I’m without, my joy is flightless birds,
And, in my room, smoke fits me like a glove.
Any fights we have can’t subside too soon;
She cares for me, and I, the lover, swoon.
Why does he write sonnets about his pot? I don't know, but I think it's because he fancies it romantic.
He has developed the desire to write tributes to people he meets on teen angst/"I'm going to kill myself" message boards. I have no clue why, but it probably comes from the same place as his vintage record player and collection of vinyl.
God was more real to her parents
than to her; instead, she had her
painted devils and viewed them with
eyes that had seen more than their
fair share of growing up. A split
second decision can change or
save, or even stain - black paint on
her ever-white dress and pancake
pale skin. The last thing they saw
was that she was too old to be a
flower girl but wore the little girl
clothes and crown anyway; they
never knew that her smile was more
fake than her sister’s tan. When her
spine bent, no one stopped to hear,
and the twisting went unnoticed.
When nothing else could help him,
innumerable angels left their places
in the white plastic woodwork, just
to bring the boy some peace. Halfway
there, they met a lean-limbed
herald of time well wasted, and together
they went from thence to liquid
Alzheimer’s. The local newspaper ran his
story, right next to the little league scores.
Though the exact details
of her death have become
the things of legend, we
remember her trivialities
and the most unfortunate
circumstances. They say
she went with red carnations
and that daisies declared
her innocence where she
could not. Lily of the valley
was, by all accounts, a
white spice in her Nordic
blonde. Poppies were the
merciful ones, gracing her
eyes with the greatest haze.
Rumor has it that twenty
roses grew in every color
from the soil of her grave,
but all the azaleas gave up on
life when their maiden died.
Sing, Muse, of a girl from the heartland.
Not some gussied-up, big city tramp like
she admired, but a beauty dazzling
in her rustic simplicity.
Recite or recount to me her smile,
all her pure white teeth perfectly
aligned. Were those dimples on her
rose-hipped cheeks, or were they the
indentations of fair Cupid’s fingers?
And tell me, fair one, of how she died,
how the pressure grew too great. But
speak not of the rope she used, or the
marks left upon her long, white neck,
just let the flawlessness speak for itself.
I loved her, Muse, that girl from the heartland,
though I only saw her through a
webcam. My only regret is that I
cannot join her. She had courage that
I couldn’t hope to hold.
Mother Earth has noting on my mistress
And Gaea’s beauty is but put to shame.
With good cause, Dulcinea does distress
And Juliet goes lost to cruelest game.
Her hair, in verdant splendor, shines,
Her eyes, in earthen brown, caress mine own,
Though intangible, she’s “oh-so-fine,”
And, from her arms, all pleasures can be known.
I don’t like the drugs? O, you waste your words!
Only when she’s here can I be said to love!
When I’m without, my joy is flightless birds,
And, in my room, smoke fits me like a glove.
Any fights we have can’t subside too soon;
She cares for me, and I, the lover, swoon.
Why does he write sonnets about his pot? I don't know, but I think it's because he fancies it romantic.