poetry and prose from my teenage years

8/13/2019 Poetry and Prose From My Teenage Years

1/24

Alone Again

I am alone

Here in this wilderness

Once I was found,Heard a voice calling,

Reaching, yearning

Wanting only me

But now I am alone

I cannot see

What it is that there is to be seen

Oh how I wish I could

Find what it is I'm wantingSearching for

Within me

Without me

I am nothing

I am alone


2/24

Blank

The pages turn,

The flames that burn,

The days that last,

From summers past,The ties that bind,

The lies that blind,

And lost in time,

We wonder.

When life stands still,

Before the kill,

The world moves on,

When summers gone,

And as the trees,

Sway in the breeze,We sit, and smile,

And wonder.

And then we stare,

Into the air,

And filter all our thoughts and dreams,

Out through all the popping seams,

Of this slow life,

With all its strife,

And wait to know,

And wonder.

The pages burn,

What's left to learn?

The days are gone,

And so the sun,

The ties that break,

Lost in the wake,

Of life in motion,

And so we wonder.

These are all our thoughts and fears,Flying in the frost,

These will not last out the years,

Just letters on a blank white page.


3/24

Its Gone

I hear the whispering,

What the voices say

It's Gone

I know when they talk,

About me, behind closed doors

She's Gone

I feel the cold,

The chill in the night

They're Gone

They hate us,

Because we're different,

Because we matter,

Because they can't change us

That is Until

We're Gone


4/24

heart

Here is my heart

I brought it outJust for you

I hope you like it

And you see

What I mean

When I say

As this builds up

Inside

And its hard

This is all new

I don't show people

What I show you

But you are different

Trust when I say

You are so special

I will show you

My heart

Bring it out

Just becauseI love you

So here is my heart


5/24

June

See the happy children,Running all around.

Listen to their footsteps,

Pounding on the ground.

Hope they'll all stay happy,

Wiling away their hours.

Let them stay young forever,

In their hearts and ours.

Playing on the roundabouts,

Laughing in the sun.Let it be forever,

For each and every one.

June has come and gone now,

And as summer fades,

Children grow up, older,

And childhood slips away.


6/24

The Killing Trees

Black.

Everything is black. And as I slowly prise my eyes open it changes, from black to grey. My

eyes fully open. But the colour doesnt change. The whole world is made up of varying

shades of grey. I stand slowly, the muscles of my body tensing and relaxing in turn. Below

my feet there are a few shrivelled blades of grass; more black than any other colour. While

I am looking I realise that I have no shoes. My naked feet glow, snow white against the

dark earth.

The wind whips through my hair, and the thin cotton dress Im standing in. Im now

unsurprised to find that it is dark brown, drab and colourless, like the rest of this place. My

skin jumps with the chill, running right down my spine. Looking around I see for the firsttime where I am. A darkened hillside to my right, covered with the sinister plant life of an

abandoned moor. To my left a single tree, leafless and dank. It looks to me almost as

depressed as the atmosphere it finds itself in. From the top branch hangs a noose, swinging

in the breeze.

A path leads around the base of the tree and off between the moors. There is nothing to do

but follow it. And so I do. It starts as dirt, warm on my bare feet. But as it progresses past

the roots of the tree it changes, into what feels like gravel. I glance down. And to my

horror, see shards of bone, razor sharp under my feet. I want to run, but my feet just walk

on, ripping and tearing. On looking behind I see a trail of my own blood, running between

the bones and into the dark soil beneath.

Without wanting to, I round a corner. And come suddenly upon a flat cliff top. Here the path

ends. In front of me there is a dismal view, a shear fall down to jagged grey rocks,

interspersed with willows and bogs. All shrouded with a thick covering of fog and mists.

Behind me the path runs down a slight slope and then back down around the hillside. Where

it turns downwards there is another tree, the same as the first, complete with swinging

noose. This one is more recent however. Hanging from the rope is a skeleton, creaking

quietly in the wind. Its empty eyes bore into the soul.

I turn, trying to block the image from my mind. And find myself facing a wall, glaring

against the dreary sky. Its garish red bricks threaten and impose. I look upwards, upwards,

straining to see where this barrier ends. But it simply disappears into eternity. I dare not

turn back to the cliff, or the tree, or to any new phantom placed in my path. Consequently I

tread backwards, away from everything. And then I see the sign. A tiny, rusted bronze

plaque, above a small wooden door. Which reads two words in simple script.

COUNTY GAOL


7/24

Those two words send a shiver down my spine. The whole dark world seems to collapse in

on me, and I am on the ground, pulling at the dark, dead grass around my feet. I

understand now the killing trees, the mist of death that surrounds this place. I feel crushed

by the despair and doubt. As I kneel, a single tear drops onto my white skin. Blood red, it

runs down my finger and onto the ground. And the world spins out again, releasing me. I

stagger to my feet, stagger away from the door, from the wall, from the whole concept.

My eyes are wide now, with fear and sadness. I stop, I turn, and I run. Down the path and

away. On and on I run, running away from that wall. The gravel, the bones are shredding

my feet, but I feel no pain. I just have to escape. I round a corner. And next to me there is

a treea killing tree. And in front of me there is a red brick wall, a county gaol. I turn, and

run back, down the path again. But around the next corner is another killing tree, and the

gaol again. There is no escape.

I collapse sobbing, next to the corner of the building. There I sit, praying it will all go away.

Black.

Everything is black. And as I slowly prise my eyes open it changes, from black to grey. And

as my eyes open, I can see the grey sky, and feel the brick behind me. And in looking

forward I see the killing tree; and the skeleton hanging. But the landscape has changed. As

far as the eye can see, there is now flat, dust desert. And surrounding me, the tree and the

gaol is row upon row of barbed wire. Dripping barbed wire. Dripping blood.

I stand, walk to the tree, to the wire surrounding me. The grey sky has been exchanged for

one of teal, the sun harshly glaring down, turning the world to dust beneath my feet. I

shelter under the sparse tree, and stare down at the wire, wondering if it can all be real. I

touch it, speculating on the possibility that I am insane. Even the wire between the barbs israzor sharp. My blood drips down, added to the steadily growing pools. In horror I watch it

disappear; mingle with the mass of red.

As I stand below the tree I hear a new sound, a faint whisper from behind me. Slowly it

grows, a strung out scream, growing into a deafening crescendo blocking out my very

thoughts, feelings, hopesdropping me into a pit of despair, a cage and I cantbreak out,

break through the screaming. Through the uniform sound I start to hear individuals, men,

women, children, babies. I hear their suffering and their pain, the torture they endure. The

pain they tolerate so I can live.

And then from through the screams I hear a voice. A single, weak voice, a child, calling out

to me, calling my name. Over and over, calling for me to save him, save him from the dark.

Because he is afraid, so afraid of the dark. And I can hear him so clearly. But there is

nothing I can do now. Maybe thenbut now no longer. I hear footsteps, marching. It is

happening againagain and again, over and over: the screaming, and the child, and the

soldiers, coming to take me away.


8/24

The people, screaming, dying so that I might live. Because they have been told that I can

save them. And it is a lieand I am the cause of all their torture. And I hear the child, the

little boy, locked in a dark room waiting to be saved, because he is afraid of the dark. And

the marching. And the hissing. The hissing sound, the sound that reeks of death, of murder.

My murder. I am simply the bait. I lead the cattle to the slaughter, and even as they die,

they call my name, believing I will save them. But I am no angel of salvation. I am an angelof death.

And it stops. I find myself curled under the killing tree, squirming in agony. But now there is

silence. I stop, and stand silent. And slowly turn, to face what I know I will find. The door of

the gaol lies wide open. And before it is a monster, more beast than man. Hunched in

ripped grey clothes, bloodstained. Greasy black locks, and piercing red red eyes. Death lives

in those eyes. He turns to face me silently, and the sky goes black. Existence is wiped out.

There is nothing left, except him and I. And the wall. And the killing tree.

I look into his eyes. I know nothing of this man. He is not one who I have wronged. This

man is like me, we are one and the same. This man is a cold blooded murderer. And he willmurder me, here and now. And I will be missed by no-one. So it should be. And so it will be.

Without warning he is upon me, swinging me this way and that. I follow my reflex reaction.

I scream. He ignores me. He juggles me between his huge hands for a little longer, and

then without warning, he throws me through the air. I hit the wall with no sound. Lying

motionless on the ground I wait for him to pounce on me again. Here is my punishment. He

is back once again, his glaring eyes and bloodstained lips above my head. I wait for the final

hit. But it never comes. Instead he lifts me, and kisses my bloody forehead. And then he is

gone. I am alive. I drift slowly out of consciousness, one sound echoing in my ear, the voice

of a small boy

Save mepleaseits so dark. Save me miss. Save mehelp me

Black.

Everything is black. And as I slowly prise my eyes open it changes, from black to grey. My

eyes fully open. But the colour doesnt change. The whole world is made up of varying

shades of grey.

Have I been here before?


9/24

Live

Live...

As flowers glance across

Fields of maize

To children at a loss

On summer days

Eyes to the skys

Blues and whites

And then back

To dark starry nights

and die...

to the sound of feet

pounding down

as those who decide meet

in silent sound

ears to the ground

and in tears we drown

as death comes

and we

all fall down


10/24

Scarred

Preface: Re-reading this brings back all kinds of memories of teen angst that I didnt really

have when I was writing this. What I did have was a wonderfully weird group of friends who

were all struggling to come to terms with themselves. I think a lot of sentiments which I

didnt personally experience, but which my friends shared with me, come through in this.

_______

See...

Red lines running across palms

Deep cuts on lower arms

Scores on skin

But what is hidden?

The scar on my heart

The reason I cut

And let my blood depart

Washing my body in fire

Burning pain, death

Desire;

To be someone new

New face, new name

New skin, no pain and

Loss and fear

No tears

Let me be someone without problems

Without "issues"

Let me be someone un-scarred


11/24

Grey Lives

Preface: As with some of the other pieces, I believe this was a creative writing piece for

school.

_________

Wouldn't it be nice, if lives were black and white?

For some people, they are. They wake up, have breakfast, go to work or school, come

home, have dinner, go to bed. Just like that, black and white. They meet nice people, settle

down in nice houses in nice estates and have 2.4 children, who they dote upon. They are

happy with their little black and white lives.

And then, there are those others. Those of us who do not have black and white lives. The

ones in the grey areas.

And often you can't tell who those are. They wake up, like the rest of the world. They have

breakfast, go to work or school just like everyone around them. They have dinner, and they

go back to sleep, ready for another black and white day. But what makes them grey, is the

things they do in between these meaningless tasks, events for every day.

___

My name is Grace, and I'm an alcoholic.

as if i'm here, fucking AA bollocks and i want to be gone...just play along

Yes, I umm, I think I have a problem with alcohol, which I'm trying to tackle at the

moment. For my family, you know, because I feel that maybe I'm being unfair on them. I

don't personally think that my drinking is a problem you know...no problem at all actually, because i hardly drink at all, yet i get to sit here with a bunch of

boozers and talk about my fucking 'problem'

...but at any rate, I think it might help my family if I maybe didn't drink anymore.

____

..::~jellycat~::..


12/24

hey

--sezzajane--

hiya

..::~jellycat~::..~

i dint cya afta skl 2day...were woz ya?

--sezzajane--me?

..::~jellycat~::..

yes u, hu else am i tokin 2?

--sezzajane--

m8 i jst went home dint i

..::~jellycat~::..

sarah, u no if u got a prob u can tell me rite?

--sezzajane--

course...wot u tokin bout?

..::~jellycat~::..

its just...well ppl hav been sayin you'v lost weight nd u r gettin pretty thin...ur nt ill r u orsumthin?

--sezzajane--

NO...fukin hell y ppl always tokin bout me...i'm as fat as eva me

..::~jellycat~::..

u not fat nd u no it

--sezzajane--

ye woteva...neway, i'm fine jas

..::~jellycat~::..

well if u say so...cya 2morro k?

--sezzajane--

ye, no probs

well...i can't tell her i was throwing up in the toilets can i? she'll think i'm anorexic or bulimic

or whatever the hell you call it. i'm fine but maybe i ought to think about when i pick to do

it...if people are noticing...i mean i'm fine, just food doesn't really agree with me...which is

no bad thing, i mean i've always needed to lose weight...

____

by Mark Smith

I am not strong and brave

How can I be saved?

Nothing I can do

To get away from you

He kept running far

Away from where you are


13/24

But you were always there

Making him so scared

You crept up on him

Beat him through his skinBruised all black and blue

What can the boy do?

Tried to tell his mum

She said he was dumb

Tried to tell his dad

He said its too bad

Tried to tell Miss in class

She said do your maths

Tried to tell his mates

But they laughed in his face

Scrawled it on the bathroom wall

Its like he isn't here at all

- Mark, this is not what I asked for. See me. Please do not produce melodrama every time I

ask a simple task.

____

Case #23 Review.

Housing application. 1 woman, 2 children aged 7 and 12. New situation. Safe house

necessary. Present situation. Threat of severe domestic violence.

Suggestions: Suggest a move to the top of a priority list.

Notes: There is reasonable evidence to suggest fatal attacks are a possibility but the

candidate refuses to move unless accommodation is found, she does not want to leave her

children 'on the streets'

____

ANON


14/24

hi well i got told to write something down or something. because see miss dresden saw

these marks on my arms and she thinks its my parents or something like they're beating

me up. so i just wanted to put down that my parents haven't done anything. i cut myself

like that. i am not telling you why, and i do not need any help. i don't want my parents to

know and i don't want to talk about it. all i need is just to be left alone, because its not a

problem. a few little cuts never hurt anyone. they just help me thats all. i'm fine.

____

Dear Diary,

I'm going to die.

I am killing myself tonight

I want all the people I love to know, it wasn't you. I love you all, don't be hurt. I just have

to do this. I can't handle living anymore like this. I can't take the way I'm treated at work,in the streets.

I know, that there is nothing wrong with being the way I am. But i can't cope with the fact

that no-one else has learnt that yet. They need me to be someone I'm not and I don' think I

can do that I don't think I can be that other person.

I need to die

Because I can't live as myself...no more.

_____

Wouldn't it be nice

If life was blackand white


15/24

Alone: I

I am here

Just like always

And I know that you're not late

You just won't show

Why don't I go?

Maybe I just don't understandStupid girl

Don't get it yet

You'll never show

And I'll be here...

Alone


16/24

Alone: II

Am I being a dumb girl?

Am I truly?

Just because I will wait

In the dark, on my own

Alone

Just for you

Don't feel you're special please...I'd hate for you to get the wrong impression

The idea you mean something

You are nothing

Except a warm comfort on a cold night

A night like tonight


17/24

Alone: III

And so

I'm resigned

I'll leave

You'll never see me again

Once I've left

Accepted

That I am as little to you

As I pretend you are to me

Off I walk

Alone

Again


18/24

The Passer By

Guess what,

Nobody likes you,

Guess what,

Nobody cares.

Guess what,

Nobody needs you,

Guess what,

Nobody wants you there.

You can sit on the street corner,

Until the end of time,

And nobody will notice you,

Or throw you a life-line.

There's nobody who's seen you,

There's nobody who cares,

There's nobody to look for you,

There's nobody who stares.

And if, and when, you're dead and gone,There'll be no-one to cry,

Because nobody ever knew you,

And we're all just passers by.


19/24

The White Room

Preface: I feel the need to preface this one, as its coming slightly out of context. As far as I

remember this was a creative writing project when I was about 15, entitled My Favourite

Room. I would like to stress that this is complete fiction, I was no t a traumatised 15 year old,

just a very creative and imaginative one, apparently.

________

The answer to the question,' What is your favourite room?' is a simple one. I do not even

need to think about the possibilities. The single room that stands out in my mind is one

right at the top of a large house, in a small village. It is so light and airy. It has pure white

walls, and a white standing lamp. Even the floor is plain white. White painted boards. Carpetis irritating. There is very little in the room. A bed, a lamp, a chair. No desk, no writing

needs to be done in this tranquil haven. Other matters can be left at the door. A single oak

bookshelf, hidden by a white curtain, is all that intrudes, to remind one of the outside world.

On the wall, is a huge window. It has a blind, again white; to hide the world, but this is not

frequently used. Instead it is left open, to reveal a breathtaking view. Rolling hills, tall

cypresses and a picturesque village. It is hard to retreat back into the room, once the sight

captures the observer. I could stay there all day. However, eventually the peace of the

room calls the inhabitant back, and the view is replaced by the cool serenity evident in the

surroundings.

The room was once used as storage space, but was converted into a bedroom at the start of

the decade. Some of the original features linger on; the dark imposing wooden beams, now

also white, of course. They reminisce of the house's origins, as a calm country getaway for

the more wealthy Tudors. Also included in the room are the telltale marks of a box room,

darkened marks on the boards from the feet of an old bathtub, and slight scrapes on the

walls, from an old bookshelf being moved.


20/24

The only decoration in my room is a single picture, hanging on the far wall. It is only about

five centimetres square, but it draws the eye in, convincing the admirer to delve into the

tiny portrait. The designs on the rim of the frame show that it belongs to a long lost era, but

the picture inside tells a different story, a black and white photograph print, artistically

taken, maybe in the early twentieth century.

The photo itself is of a young girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old, with large dark eyes,

and a long dark braid, running the length of her back. She is seated on a small stool,

trimmed with velvet, and she is wearing a beautiful dress, emanating wealth and bearing.

Around her neck hangs a delicate string of pearls, and on her lap sits a small kitten, playing

with a ball of string. In the background the room itself is obscured by a large brocade

curtain, being used as a backdrop, and in front of this on the right, stands a magnificent old

globe on a stand, and to the left, a large well-stocked bookshelf.

The child herself seems unaffected by her impressive surroundings. Her head is turned to

the camera, and her eyes show a mournful tint, as if she can see the future of all the gaudy

possessions around her. Indeed their future is not beautiful, as they gather dust in an atticstorage room, and are eventually thrown away, to make way for more modern frippery. Her

face shows no discernable emotion, and even any request by the artist of a smile has been

ignored. She looks not lost, nor haughty, but simply unaffected, as if she does not belong in

the frame, but has wandered in by mistake, and been placed, like a mannequin, for display.

This child embodies the overall sense of the room, showing how no matter what decoration

or dress is placed over the space, it will not change but remain as it was created. This

makes the room come alive as one moves from the picture. Upon turning it becomes

obvious that this is where the picture was taken, despite there being no particular shape or

item to suggest as such. It is simply the atmosphere that gives the indication.

At this point some doubt springs into the mind as to whether this room is in fact as magical

as it first appears. Having discovered the picture depicting the space, almost in another life,

it seems confusing to suggest this room is so perfect. The face of the girl coveys dislike for

her surroundings, and one wishes to know, having discovered this, what it is that she finds

so hideous about such a pleasant room, with such a picturesque view. There must be some

reason, and only her picture holds the key.

Instinct takes over, as it becomes evident that there is some secret to be unlocked in this

room. There is so little there however that is seems difficult to know where to start. Some

old books, on a lightly concealed bookshelf, wooden Tudor beams, and a tiny photograph

seems very little to go on. The obvious place to look is the picture. As it is removed fromthe wall, the light falls on the back of the frame, revealing the tiny indents where the back

can be removed. Now decided on a line of inquiry, the back is allowed to fall away, down

onto the clean white bed linen.

On the back of the photograph are some small letters giving an insight into the rest of the

picture. Composition notes as to the organisation of the shot. They are partially faded but

the remainder reads,


21/24

'red curtain pinned to beam, globe stood in fr',

'bookshelf moved from its alcove, scraped wall in process.'

'The child had been sat on the stool, with her kitten on her lap, her mother's pearls around

her ne'

The last note, at the foot of the picture is probably the most revealing. It is not in the same

hand, and states simply, 'Louisa'. Next to this, something has been scribbled out. It onceread a name, beginning with the letter 'J'.

Once the picture has been replaced, attention turns to the bookshelf in the alcove. Whereas

it has previously gone relatively unnoticed, further inspection leads it to become apparent

that this is the bookcase in the picture. The books appear untouched by time, and though

the pages are yellowed, they are still legible. Most are uninteresting, encyclopaedias, and

almanacs, detailing the family line or the sea voyages of a long lost uncle. One however

immediately catches the eye. It is more worn than the others, as if it has been handled

many times. The front is blank, but on the first page there are a few handwritten lines. They

read, 'The Diary of Louisa Anne Strachey'

On turning a further page, more lines in the same small hand are revealed. It is not

interesting, simply the trivial matters of a young girl noted down. However, one page, in the

centre of the book is detached, and falls away from the rest of the book. It is cleaner than

the other pages, and is obviously not part of the book but something placed there. It is a

letter, written to the child, and the words convey a terrible secret, which keeps one fixed to

the paper.

'Louisa,

I know that you do not want to have any communication with me from now on, and after

what you saw I cannot fault you. It must have shaken you, and I apologise profusely,

though I know I can never hope to make it right again. I have run away, escaped. I cannot

tell you where to for you may hand this letter over to the authorities. I just hope that you

will read through this whole letter, and make your own decision about the events that took

place.

I know that he was your younger brother, just as he was mine, and as the oldest I should

have protected the two of you, not split the family up. However, when Father and Mother

were killed, and we were left in the care of Uncle Henry, he took it upon himself to share the

content of the will with me, as I was fifteen at the time, and responsible enough to know. It

was then that I first found hate for our father. The reason for this hostility is simple. He had

decided to leave our entire inheritance to Paul.


22/24

I know well that we both already harboured hate for the snivelling brat, not of our mother,

but a lowly servant girl. That our father would neglect us in his favour was monstrous. I was

only thinking of you, dear sister, when I took the child up to the box room, up to the old

bathtub. My intention was clear in my own mind. If I killed the boy, then the money would

be ours. The fittings for the picture were still fixed up, but thankfully the tub had been leftin place behind the curtain. I started and finished my task with little interruption, save for

the kitten, who made its way up the stairs. I was just removing my hands from the child's

throat when you entered, in search of the cat. I wish you had been spared the sight, but

sadly you understood immediately.

You ran from my presence screaming, and knowing what was to follow, I escaped as soon

as I could. I had to leave him there, in the bath. I dread to think what else happened on

that fateful day. All I know is what I have found since, that you inherited the money. For

that I am glad of everything that happened that day in the box room. I would do it again, a

thousand times.

I love you my dear little sister, and I hope you will forgive me.

Jeanette'

Poor little Louisa, to find her dear sister killing her younger brother. For her this room could

never have been the haven it is now. After fifty years her spirit still lingers, revealing the

rooms sinister past. For me however this will always be my favourite room, with its calmserenity, and beautiful unspoilt view. The mystery of the past, contained within these four

walls, only creates more haunting appeal. In this place where beauty and peace reign, the

dark mysterious undertones give it the final quality to make this my favourite room.


23/24

This Kid

Theres this kid

He goes to school

He comes home

Alone

Theres this kid

On the welfare stateOn the social

Alone

Theres this kid

Lying awake

Lying, dying

Alone

And why is no-one there?

Because no-one notices,

He's another number,Not a name,

It's just not right,

It's just not fair that he's not treated the same.

Because he is the same...but what do they care?

What do they care?


24/24

poetry and prose from my teenage years

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