Wednesday, October 24, 2012

Holly's Teenage Poetry: Part Two

Do you happen to remember my long-lost love? I may have mentioned him while talking about my ephemera collections or my inspirational message about miscarriage or my countless essays about difficult break-ups.

You know, my first Real Boyfriend who cut off all contact with me suddenly and I haven't heard from him in nearly 10 years?

Or should I say, hadn't.

Out of the clear blue sky, he emailed me this week; his same sweet demeanor showed through his tough, non-paragraphed exterior. All of my 18-year-old emotions have been sweeping through me ever since. I am (clinically-approved by my therapist) riding this roller coaster of feelings in hopes that he and I can become friends again.

And don't you worry—Caleb thinks this is a laugh and a half. My boyfriend is the stuff of legend in my personal history and Caleb has been well-aware of it.

So, to usher back this extreme angst, dizzying love, and outrageous confusion, I welcome the second set of Holly's Teenage Poetry.


Don't come too close; I may burn you with my fiery personality.
Barriers made of sugar-coated smiles protect me and my Elvis memorabilia.
Geez, I love to laugh.
Colloquialisms abound in my diarrhea of the mouth;
And it know it makes me sound dumb.
Maybe I do it to spite myself.

I am spontaneity, but I follow everything I should.
I like to sing, but I hate when my bed is unmade.
I encompass positivity, but pessimism feeds my soul.
Somehow there is this cosmic conflict in me,
And I like it.

Damn me for being so forgiving.


Trying to shape my every move to her.
I watch the day tick-tock away as I
Attempt to bend my elbow to concur
With the elbow of she who owns the sky.
We lie under the clouds and she speaks of
Life and dreams. So jubilant is her laugh.
With hushed and tender voice, she speaks of love.
And I, awed, grasp all I can photograph
With mind's film. She is what I want to be:
Loved, bright, fair, good. The girl intoxicates
Those she meets. One day only, Perfect Me.
The day's about to end, and yet she waits
To go back. She is like that. So ideal.
When she leaves, she whispers, "I can be real."


Just another one of those days
Where there is no way in
But through X-Y-Z.
Dang. Here it goes again.

I've never been one to sigh
At the travesties I own
Or possess or whatever one says
When he is trying to be humble.

I've been told I'm mysterious,
Shallow, slow, savvy, deep.
Make up your mind.
I'll get back to you.

Jumping through another hoop,
Going through a door when I have to stoop,
Falling asleep in my Froot Loops,
While my brain turns to goop.

That sounded intelligent, right?

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