Post your incredibly BAD teenage poetry here

Yesterday I went to my parents' house to clean some shit out of my old room. While cleaning out the closet I found a notebook of my old, incredibly bad teen-angst filled poetry. You know, that horrible poetry you write when you're 15. You think it's really good, and someday you might be a writer. But it's really just crappy, predictable hormone filled schlock.

Now, of course it's good therapy. You get your feelings out, you express yourself. But now, at 27 I'm looking at what I wrote when I was 15 and laughing my ass off. I took my poetry so seriously and thought I was really good.

So kids, for your entertainment.......I'm throwing myself on the grenade. I'm going to start this thread off by posting quite possibly one of the worst teenage poems ever. Have a hearty laugh, because I just did.

I think of what you did to me
I hate you
and what you could've meant to me
I hate you
you let me love you, you made me care
and now I'm pulling out my hair
I hate you
I used to dream about your touch
I hate you
now I don't like you very much
I hate you
don't think I'm sad, I'm glad you're gone
I hate you
'cause hating you is so much fun
I hate you.


let me be the first to say:

ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.......! Ok, the bar has been set. Can you search your old high school notebooks and find a worse piece of crap than that?

i was brilliant. i never wrote anything bad. why don't you believe me? i was a prodigy i say! and now i need to go burn some things.

That was awesome. I don't know why all teenage poets felt the need to write these cheesy couplets. What the fuck was that about. Hahahaha.

because if you repeat it over and over...it MUST have meaning.

oh my goodness...a thread near and dear to my own heart...

I'll try and dig something up...but wait, all my old poetry is good. Of course.

Man...just looking at this stuff makes me want to go find my little 14 year old self and give her a hug...

Man I can hardly even look at that stuff any more, much less share it with anyone. It's so bad it's embarassing. However, I can't bring myself to throw them away, so I do still have that old blue notebook of mine hidden away in an old box somewhere,...well-hidden and booby-trapped.

Here's a few from my teenage days:

Palette-

condensation drains the air
what a bleak place for such peculiar ways
the smell is so
repulsive
and sickening (refreshing)
on the walls I can see
her name written so vivid and glossy
sweet nectar makes marvelous paint
the final product is moist and inspiring (a beach scene)

underneath the canvas sits a glass cube
marked "utensils" in bold type
inside is the still-crimson container
which was shiny from dripping mistakes
and next to the goblet her razor
is attached to the vase by a chain
perhaps if she drops it while refilling
or tries to throw her problems away

Statuesque-
One the edge
of a chipped brick
she is constructed.

Her pleated eyes
bronzed in gold.

A grain of sand
will wear her
silken stone down.

Ground thick like fog
the rising light eats
more of her and she
cannot fill up.

Her empty stomach
blackened another day.

Every thirst evaporates
beside a watery thigh
as the northern oasis
waits folded and calm.

Sitting decadent,
still sober from the rain
acid showers on her hollow
eyes again.

If you guys wanna see some REALLY bad shit, check out my freind's poetry site wcooler. It used to be decent but now all these 13 year olds post their crap on there. Its pretty funny.

I know EXACTLY what you mean. I was such the overly dramatic tortured soul back then. I'd like to find 15 year old Danny now. First I'd smack him on the back of the head and tell him to knock off the mellowdrama because it really doesn't help you get chicks.

hehe here is one of my old poems...

poets whine, poets cry
its always depressing and they never know why
they have money, they have love
yet i dont write poetry and i have none of the above
i guess you could call it art, i guess you can say its cool
but im the one in winter, im the one who feels the fool
they write emotions that they have half felt
I have cried for hours for the hand i was delt
But i dont want your pity, and i dont want your concern
Thats why i hate poetry, maybe you can even learn.
Bending pain for pleasure on paper may be ok by some
But i truely die a little inside by listening to half of you scum
I dare you to take a walk in my shoes cunt trunk
DO YOU REALLY KNOW WHAT IM FEELING??!
DO YOU REALLY WANNA KNOW IF IM SANE?!
ask me another day and ill write on a piece of paper again.

Ok, if you're talking 14-15 years old, that shit's really good.

If you're talking 18-19 years old... yeah, get a new hobby.

I didn't write much poetry until I was about 17. It wasn't really bad, but it wasn't good at all. It definitely wasn't filled with angst. More of a mild melancholy.

ALL of the poetry I wrote from the age of 12 to 19 was stolen

Thanks mad king, I was actually 26 when i wrote that.

http://raditts.com/pet/linkin.php
This might be topical.

when i was 11 i wrote:
you look like you're hungy
like you need some food
don't want cheap hamburger
want one mean dude
well take a look at me
i got alot of meat
and i got alot of flavor
i taste just like the street....
so, EAT ME!
i was so proud. i recorded myself singing it and playing guitar. still have it somewhere. it was all downhill from there.

i destroyed everything i wrote in high school. it was reeeally bad.

i have a problem though... i can not tell if poetry is mediocre. i can tell good, and i can tell horrible, but i don't know how to point out an 'ehh.' several of my roommates and friends were English majors and i never discussed poetry with them because of this.

oh man....I so have you guys beat!! check this crap out! created at the ripe young age of 14

Locked in a prison which does not exsist.
No way of escaping or erasing the list.
I keep to myself, my own feelings
as I feel up my spine, these slight chillings.
As hurt just explodes,
and all anger folds,
into high stacked piles
of insults so vial.
I push it away
each and every day.
I only let God know
to no one eles I show,
this very long list
which does not exsist.

what the fuck?? These slight chillings?? what the bloody hell am I talking about here? please advise!

and yes, I really did spell else like eles

[Edited on Jul 30, 2003 by ButterflyLady]

Roses are Red
Violets are Blue
I'm schizophrenic
and so am I

Lying awake at midday
In my bed alone
My mind dances astray

Gruesome ironies
Thoughtless dependencies

Staring at the ceiling
Alone in my room
I can't help but feel
My desire for you

At a party
I crash into mirrors
My drunkenness takes over
and Yet blacking out
I think of you and no other

Unconsciousness tells me
you've treated me like shit
Like the many whores you've
accompanied
But on your face a smile is lit

Am I a Game?
Do you like me this way?

When will Sobriety welcome me back?
You've drunken me Dumb

Staring at the ceiling
in Someone else's room
I can't help but feel
This desire for You.

I was 16 when I wrote that....it was about an asshole that I loved. Meep, go figure.

Oh, and then there's this one too about the same asshole.

Run your fingers through my hair
Tell me just how much you care (honestly)
“I love you not.” You cannot say
So I’ll just let you have your way (again)

Easy Come and easy Go
Try not to let emotion show (how could you?)
Your sincerity at which I scoff,
You use only to get off (figures…)

When I need you, you’re not there
But if you need me, I must be spare
For I am nothing but your whore
You cannot love me furthermore (surprise surprise)

Someday I hope that you will see
Just how much you mean to me (honestly)
But I can no longer sit and stare
When you run your fingers through my hair (it hurts too damn much)

But for a while I’ll just pretend
That my love you can comprehend
And despite your indesire for me
Faithful to you I’ll always be.

Roses are red
Violets are blue
All my base
Are belong to you.

Ok, I didn't write that.

Ok, I'm not posting my RECENT bad poetry because that will just make me sad. However, some early examples of my drama-queendom.

Drip Drip Drip I fall
Like morning juices
Like death's fragile shell
Like fluid time
That I could slip on thru
I think I fell apart
Keep it under wraps, baby girl
And maybe they don't notice
Doesn't matter after all
Doesn't even matter anymore
Go back in your hellhole
and wait til spring


(what the hell was I going on about???)


If you write it down
Does it become obsolete
With passing through your hand into the paper
Succumb to other waves of thought
Dreams
Feelings
Soon also to pass?
Or
Does it stay
Grow
A tumor on your soul
Until you can stand it no longer
Because it has been acknowledged?
Who can tell for sure
Before it reaches the paper.