Thursday, July 26, 2012

Holly's Teenage Poetry, Part One

The last few nights, I have been staying up way too late.

I can't seem to pull myself away from my latest library book, Columbine. Published in 2009, Dave Cullen's book illustrates the how, why, and when of that fateful day in Colorado; he had access to far more information than the press did in those early days. Do you think the two shooters were a part of the Trench Coat Mafia, intent on murdering their bullies? You may want to pick up this book and find out the truth.

One of the resources that Cullen had was the journals of the two teenaged shooters. Reading the excerpts from these has reminded me that we all wrote a little bit as high schoolers—some more than others, I know.

During my last trip to California, I uncovered a slew of my teenaged writings. Here are a few of the poems to whet your appetite for extremely dramatic literature. Of course they were dramatic! These poems were about me, duh.

And Still You Burn
Little fire spark, don't play your small games
That so complicate otherwise-hard Life.
Existence is yours to grasp; lay the blames
Of others by your side. The wildlife
Known as men have tried to lessen your blaze
By using their cold and hurtful mixture
Of betrayal and lies and false displays
Of friendship. And still you burn. Now you stir
Up feelings that make you shine twice as bright:
Renewal, realization, rebirth.
Welcome to the time known just as Twilight,
For the new dawn of hope is on the Earth
for those who seek it. You too, fire spark,
Can step out of oblivion—make your mark.

January 9, 2002

My second home should rightly be my first.
I go there when I'm hurt or longing for
An understanding ear; I still have thirst
For it as I look through the bars, once more,
Of Cell Block C, my premier abode. "Stop,"
Says the guard, as I try to travel there.
So I sit cross-legged on the concrete. Top
Of the class, I am, but I still dare
To dream of where I should be, not locked up
In Cell Block C. I want a home of free
Movement, without black chains, I drag my cup
Along the bars, thinking the guarantee
Of existence is in order, but no.
Cell Block C, the home of mental Death Row.

And after wading in those murky waters, I thought I'd throw in this silly one I wrote. In my AP Psychology class, I traded poems with a dear friend instead of listening. His name is Stephen.
Stephen's Lament

After the dust had settled,
The carpet was unclean.
From a friend's house was peddled
A child-eating machine.
This giant piece of torture,
This cause of boyish fear,
Pervaded the house so pure
And brought evil so near.
But off in the far distance,
Curled in a morose ball,
Twinkled a fearful, bright glimpse—
A star about to fall.
His interest in this monster
Mixed with wide-eyed wonder.
His horror made unrest stir
And existence a blur.
And yet he reached out his hand—
For this boy had assumed
That he and the world could stand
Against this feared vacuum.

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