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.