Teenage Poet Diaries - 1

Today my nerves are raw, my teeth are gnashing at the edge, and I feel certain that anything that comes out of these fingers, I will regret later. For they are not true, they are at best impostors to my feelings, colored by emotions.

And so, I unearthed a journal, an essay book given to me by my writing instructor, in the summer between junior and senior years of high school. I was 16 and a "poet." I was dark, and drama, and angst. I was a poem in the back pocket. Words in my head. Unrequited love, committed to lines. I was every bit as obnoxious and pretentious as that all sounds. (And apparently a little too in love with ee cummings and his lack of punctuation. God forbid I write anything clear.)

Serenity

Serenity
like a line
flows across the page of life
like a highway-
broken at times
distant
just over the next hill
but always there.

I search, seek,
am left anxious
wanting.
When desired most
peace recedes
not to be yearned for
but needed.

I crouch on the floor
marker in hand
tracing qualities.
Concerns vacation
unreturned calls
broken promises
forgotten.

Clear in mind and conscience.
serene ink runs onto the paper
and makes a person.