I would be happy to send more poems later (I have no
shortage of these!) if you would like.
I really had difficulty selecting what could truly be considered my "best" teen
angst poetry. Honestly, it is difficult to get the entire effect without
reading my entire notebook in succession. I never wrote "fuck you" poems or
odes, or anything of that nature. My teen angst years were filled with "I love
you more than life itself" and "I'm going to die alone". The true irony is that
one such "I will never love again" masterpiece might be followed immediately by
some passionate expression to the new love of my life.
My very first "real" boyfriend and I met when I was fifteen years old. He was
nearly three years older than me, charming, and had an accent. He was
brilliant, spoke fluent French, and I was madly in love with him. I eventually
lost my virginity to him, in, of course, the most romantic of situations. We
were at his friend's party and could only find one open room. The room in
question belonged to the host's little sister, and had a bed with “Barney”
sheets. We were both still wearing our socks. Two weeks later, he slept with
another girl and then begged me to take him back, only to dump me a week after
that. I wrote this soon after my major heartbreak. Please note that it is
modeled after a Shakespearian sonnet. I really thought that pain equaled
They say true love is difficult to find,
I guess I was fortunate to find you.
When once, two knowing hearts possessed the kind
Of love we thought was relentlessly true.
And so they screamed, “This world’s an ugly place,”
This made it tough for me to understand
Could this wisdom prove true in every case?
It was beautiful when you held my hand.
Like color in sun, love fades when left long,
Feelings become bleeding, festering wounds
There is an end to every pretty song,
When the pain screams, and we ignore the sound.
Alas, I knew that I could not pretend
But young minds never recognize the end.
("I'll never love again")
My next great love was a sixteen year old, skinny, awkward virgin with facial
hair. Looking back, he didn’t have much to offer, other than the fact that he
worshipped me. In time, the feeling became mutual. Somehow, we were both
convinced that we were soul mates and would end up getting married. This
particular section of my notebook is covered in hearts, combinations of my name
and his, and pictures of us together. Worse yet, I used to read my literary
outpourings to him over the phone. This is maybe the worst thing I have ever
Have you ever dreamed something true
Long before it came to be?
My entire life I’ve wanted you
To come along for me.
You are the only thing that matters in life,
The only one for whom I cry
I know someday I’ll be your wife,
And love you till I die.
I don’t think that you realize
Because I’ve never told you
I know when I look into your eyes
You are my dream come true.
("More than like")
I continued to write poetry about this particular individual, Ari, for the
entire length of our relationship. Another real gem:
I never felt like anything
before I was with you
but you've told me I'm special every day
because you believe its true
what is it you see in me
that no one has ever seen?
all I know is that I'm happier now
than I have ever been
You tell me that I'm perfect
but I don't think that is true
the only thing that I believe is
I am absolutely perfect for you.
("More than like")
After little more than three months of “pre-marital” bliss and bad sex, Ari
announced that he was moving to Israel. I was devastated, but determined to
keep the romance alive. We lasted about six weeks. Really, though, I can’t tell
if I was lonely or horny when I wrote this one:
I remember when you sang to me
Every night before I slept
But no longer can I hear you sing
And so last night I wept
I miss speaking on the phone for hours
I miss knowing you are there
Most of all, I miss your touch
Your fingers in my hair
The feeling of your skin on mine
Is far removed from today
I never knew I could be this lonely
Until you went away
("More than like")
The story has a happy ending, though. I went on to have some very healthy, adult
relationships, during which I felt no need to write “more than like” poetry. I
no longer get that “I am going to die alone with a lot of cats” feeling when
dumped, and certainly don’t pull out a notebook. I’m single now, but fully
aware that I am not the only person in that situation (though I still think it
sucks- perhaps THAT part never goes away). Coincidentally, I am now studying to
be a writer, even though some of these submissions may ruin any possible future