The poems below are a little longer and a little more…well, I’ll be honest, I used to write poetry as if I were smart or something, as if I knew everything there is to know about life and death (so please excuse my past penchant for the dramatic).
And, plus, in addition, to add, furthermore…I think I was just trying to use big words and big ideas at that age. How outlandish of me. How extraordinarily peculiar.
by Alexa L., written in high school
I’ve become a writing heretic
Sentences are too periodic for my taste
I do not conform to paragraphs
And all my poems are those I write in haste.
My essays are not following a pattern
My conclusions end with nothing to conclude
I do not conform to stylistic technique
And my language is not eloquent, but rude.
I’ve become a reading heretic
Novels are too lengthy for my speed
I do not conform to excess pages
One or two is all I truly need.
Boredom rests upon my very eyelids
It’s tedious to read another word
I do not conform to vapid titles
In reality, a book is just absurd.
I’ve become a speaking heretic
A thought can really cause me such dismay
I do not conform to words I’ve always spoken
And most people have run out of things to say.
My vocabulary’s shorter than a tree stump
And my head is filled with thoughts that shake the tree
I do not conform to lies or to fake values
For speaking can become the loss of thee.
by Alexa L., also written in high school
I’ve always held a grudge against the universe
But I’ve never held a reason why
I guess, because of violence, lies, and sorrow
Or that people, in their destination, die
When I found I had been predestined for nothing
That my life, no matter what, would be cut down
I realized life is just unending circles
Where the ones who try to fly, will all fall down
We all survive in hopes of making futures
For generations we all know will pass away
The only reason why we are still living
Is to make a path for those who need a way
So life, in all its splendor, is quite useless
Our existence is for others to exist
But the world is full of love, and of emotion
Where death is what we often can’t resist