Another one of my musings from the point of a high school senior.
Q: “What do you enjoy doing now? If you had a crystal ball, what might you see yourself doing as an adult?”
A: “My possible future? Well, I want to get a record deal and work with producers and songwriters. What will likely happen is I’ll go to university and become nothing, really.”
Oh, how optimistic I used to be.
Apparently I haven’t posted this one. I wrote this back in Grade 10 for one of my classes. It was based on a template that everyone in the class got and we all basically had to fill in the blanks. I’m assuming the teacher read it but she didn’t do or say anything to me after. I probably would have.
I Am
I am depressed, alone.
I wonder what it’s like to be normal
I hear words of hate dripping off peoples’ mouths.
I see his face
I want him to notice me.
I am depressed alone.
I pretend it’s when I’ve gone to hell and back.
I feel afraid of getting too close.
I touch the soft mist of his aura.
I worry about myself.
I cry from rejection.
I am depressed, alone.
I understand true understanding.
I say life is without meaning.
I dream of even the shortest exchange between him.
I try to be myself.
I hope to make it.
I am depressed, alone.
More angsty (bad) teen poetry, written probably in 2005.
Endless Days
Where am I getting this air from?
I can’t breathe from this
suffocation
that’s strangling me,
squeezing every last ounce of oxygen
out of my lungs.
In the words of my sister Pink
I don’t want love to destroy me
like it did my family.
Yet I know you laugh, scornfully
that I’m a Simon
knowing so much, yet having so little
So much wiser than you could ever imagine
wisdom after learning such harsh lessons
full of sound and fury, signifying nothing
except the need to want
and keep wanting.
Why can’t we be satisfied with
what we have already?
Who cares? It doesn’t matter.
In the end, the dream of life shatters.
March 1st, 2005
Desperation
As I sit here,
trying to get over the fact that I need you,
It fills my mind; you fill my mind.
I know it’s cliche but
even the sight of you
relieves my addiction to you.
But only for so long,
until I have to get over my desperation
for you.
I often tell people that “Empty” was the first song I wrote, but that’s not actually true. Back in the 10th Grade, instead of listening to Mr. O’Connor drone on about Social Studies and his propaganda (more on that a different day), I wrote this poem that somehow turned into a song in my mind. Sure, the lyrics are terrible and the melody of which I have long forgotten was probably equally terrible. But hey. Without this, I may not have ever been able to take a look at this later and thought, “Huh. So this is kinda really bad. Let’s write something good for a change… like about depression!”
One More Day
The morning brings to me,
Something I don’t know.
Singing in the streets,
Is what I have to show.
Why is life so hard
with everything I do?
Nothing seems to start
but your face will get me through
‘Cuz I know that…
CHORUS
I need to be free,
I need you with me.
When I’m goin’ crazy
and my mind is hazy, yeah
I need my own ways
Don’t care what you say.
Just help me get through one more day.
Dreamin’ of your face,
Thinking of your smile.
Staring into space,
Thouts just seem to pile.
Words can’t express,
how much I like you.
This problem’s such a mess
but I know you’ll get me through.
‘Cuz it seems like…
Repeat chorus
And it feels like this is never gonna work out,
on the inside, this is making me scream and shout.
Trying to forget you, but there is no doubt.
Now I cannot lie,
My love will only grow.
I can’t deny
[I think there’s a line more but the paper’s ripped at the bottom. Which may be a good thing.]
Omg, this is so overdramatic… ugh.
Race
Life is like a race; the first person at
the end of the line wine; wins what? Well, they win
the prize happiness, while us losers end up with nothing
but the thrill of death.
Something I wrote for my poetry class. It feels like a complete departure from what I usually write but I like pushing myself to explore different subjects.
Hallway
Florescent lights, like a hospital patient room
Sanitized floors, trying to hide scuff marks
A crimson neon exit sign hangs above my head,
Me, a grim reaper with a gun
Number 1 and 2 fall soundlessly,
their hands in the other’s like I’ve always seen them
Always clutching, touching
3 screams before a silver reply pierces her lungs.
My devilish hands, puppeting my sight, spy 4, eyes closed
as if content for having lived only sixteen years.
I must turn away as my demon fingers pull the trigger
After wounding 5, she crawls on elbows, reduced to a human rowboat
But as I gain on her, cannon in hand, the boat sinks, a hole too many, liquid rushing out instead of in.
A sound startles me.
6 sits slumped, rocking back and forth, a pendulum
fingers creating trenches behind a crying face, moaning like a siren.
The sight slashes into me, deeper than any round I’ve fired
I nod in recognition of the pain he endures and will endure and continue
At the end of the hallway stand two white doors,
and before I pass, I turn around
It smells of death:
Blood tainting the floor
Flickering lights, like a morgue
They lie there, sleeping kindergarteners
Sons and daughters. People’s children.
Suddenly, pain surges and I unleash a fury of gray tears upon myself.
It started with a bullet. It will end with one.
My hands, still possessed, perform one last sin.
“How did it come to this?” I wonder as I christen myself number 7.
More crappy poetry from high school.
Skipping My Life
Every day
Skipping along my life
like a broken record beyond repair
Somehow, the alarm isn’t sounding
I can’t seem to wake up
from this false dream
played like a record
Looping around and around
Every day
Skipping, it seems with no definite end
forever entranced by everything, except
not
Going around in circles
When will it stop?
Will it stop?
Not reality, that’s for sure
Life is like a broken record, repeating, repeating
Everything’s the same, it never seems to
change
Every day
More and more I must adjust
to this disgust
of identical events:
people
things
objects
neverending, but not like the story
It’s reality.
Reality that is actually a dream
A dream that I can’t wake up from
A record that I can’t fix
My life that is skipping
Every day, ’til eternity.
aaron's random musings 