(I prob. spent way too much time on this. these type of pomes are hard to make, espec. from perspective of a self-absorbed teenager in love. tried to merge the right amount of melodrama with an adult perspective, hence the title, though I'm not sure about it totally. any critiques greatly accepted. thanks)
Teenager's Sorrowful Ghost
How could I forget my blues—even as your present drunkard ways haunt me?— like when I heard you drank ‘til you wet your slacks and I winced and took no pride
to know that you hurt too. I tried stone hard to save you, loving the one you didn’t want to be, and I reckon was the first time I dreamed when my eyes wrung greedy hands and panted over yr thighs I never once kissed in that spring parking lot.
How could I forget what never happened?—you who inspired such pain, I wrote it all down on sweaty blue-lined paper—notes with my soul jammed right in there, something you laughed at or away, embarrassed perhaps cuz I begged you with open eyes to receive me all at once. I’ll only sit alone forever, waitin’ and thinkin’,
wonderin’ how things could be perfect and telling lies to know why not.
Oh, I would have killed for you, even my self, but when I returned unshaven and shaking
from the wild heart’s retreat—all the dribbles of seed spilled for you forgotten, all those thumb-sucking dreams I dreamt for you re-sheathed and dried—
there was still that nastiness left unrefined as you made your art and I made mine.
Teenager's Sorrowful Ghost
How could I forget my blues—even as your present drunkard ways haunt me?— like when I heard you drank ‘til you wet your slacks and I winced and took no pride
to know that you hurt too. I tried stone hard to save you, loving the one you didn’t want to be, and I reckon was the first time I dreamed when my eyes wrung greedy hands and panted over yr thighs I never once kissed in that spring parking lot.
How could I forget what never happened?—you who inspired such pain, I wrote it all down on sweaty blue-lined paper—notes with my soul jammed right in there, something you laughed at or away, embarrassed perhaps cuz I begged you with open eyes to receive me all at once. I’ll only sit alone forever, waitin’ and thinkin’,
wonderin’ how things could be perfect and telling lies to know why not.
Oh, I would have killed for you, even my self, but when I returned unshaven and shaking
from the wild heart’s retreat—all the dribbles of seed spilled for you forgotten, all those thumb-sucking dreams I dreamt for you re-sheathed and dried—
there was still that nastiness left unrefined as you made your art and I made mine.
