Poetry from my younger days, Hist-oetry - edition the sixth!

At some point in the past, I seriously thought I could make a career out of being a poet. I was completely disillusioned, I think. I dug out the work from a musty smelling suitcase that I have carried around with me from the last five houses I've lived in. Now that I'm settled in life, I am starting to declutter. I'm destroying what doesn't make the cull to these Steemit posts!

The scene: A time before I could even grow the beard I have today. This is candid stuff, a view back to my younger, more vulnerable self. The atoms that made up my body back then are now somewhere else, reused elsewhere in the universe. The atoms that made up the paper and pages are still with me, and so too, somehow, the memories of writing this utter tripe.

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Corrupted by a Scream

No! Please do not slay me,
That will not set me free
No, I refuse, not in this way,
Because right now, I don't want to go, I want to stay!

I know! This is not really
It is only a tormenting seal,
For it is only a dream
Corrupted by a sudden scream

Or is it a nightmare?
I don't know! I don't care!
Nobody knows, but I don't dream
Of normal things - like ice-cream!

Failure, or is that my mind?
Today, I don't know, leave it all behind,
As I know, this is only a dream
And it is soon to be corrupted by a scream

Losing my memory, eventually I'll forget
What I will not ever regret
Due to the fact that it was only a dream,
But it has not yet been corrupted by a scream.

This one seems to be okay, I think. It makes sense, it has a point, but is also ambiguous. I'm not sure if I was talking about day dreaming or the proper stuff you get at night. This one was numbered 117.

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Prison of Crimson

Why don't the words rhyme?
I've got to slow down, one at a time
Have I really committed this crime?
How long will that jail cell be mine?

What would you do if you were in prison?
Apart from the obvious, don't listen
To all the crazy idiots; it is like friction
In my head that makes me see crimson

So why is it as such?
Even when I don't listen my head hurts so much
Deep down I must not be that tough
I've hit my head against the wall enough

To realize shadows dance madly outside
Like politicians that have lied
Like me, they want to hide,
And also like me, the brain is fried

So why are my defences building up?
It's like I have no luck;
Because I don't know what the fuck
They are doing, because like life: They suck!

They cannot defend me from me
Why can I not see
That the only way I can flee
Is to escape from me?

137! I love the irony between the title and the opening line, as though it was an attempt to build my own self esteem. Like many people when they were 12,13,14,15 or however old I was when I wrote this, your own mind can feel like a bit of a prison, as you don't trust anyone around you with the pesky chemicals that are puberty. I think that is what that poem was about.

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Would you?

If I were to suspend myself upside down,
It would no longer be a frown
But this I've not shown:
If I were to suspend myself upside down
With my head in a bucket of water, I'd drown
But would you?
Would you sacrifice me?
Just for your arrogance to see
That without seeing me
You too would want to flee
The body count should be three.
But would you?
Would you just follow my every action?
No matter what you think the reaction?
Do you think I would have been unaffected by these sanctions?
Because I will side with ALL the factions
But as my soul is divided into fractions
I wonder, but would you?
If I were to kill myself,
Would you place my picture on your shelf?
Or would you just appreciate my wealth?
I know you won't be admiring my health;
Because what is good about myself?

Dark. Depressive. 144. Twelve times twelve. It is funny how my younger self was so very keen to talk about death and the very end of all things, and to some extent, that makes me comfortable with the topic. I certainly don't wish to die at every moment like this poetry suggests. Its very dramatic. Rereading the poetry makes me reconsider the decision though!

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This is a post in a series about my adolescent poetry. Join me again next time for more terrible poetry from my past! I will have another fifty nine to read through! I'm curating the 'best' of these.