Tuesday, January 14, 2014

The Tortured Soul of a Well-Off, Suburban Child

My neighbors recently vanished. Well, maybe not vanished per se, but they’ve moved. Perturbed by their ever-reclusive reclusive son, I decided to break into their home investigate their formerly-owned residence. There wasn’t much in the way of money or jewelry; even though I assure you, that’s not what I was looking for. But, I did happen upon an eerie journal. A journal full of poetry penned by what I can only describe as the tortured soul of a well-off, suburban child. There’s no structure to the poetry, but what can be expected of a child that no one understands?

Here are some unnerving excerpts from this deeply disturbing collection:

Oozing from the Cut

There is a hole in the pit of my stomach,
I feel as empty as an empty bag.
A vessel am I, but I know the cure,
I must cut.

I must cross the lines,
The knife cutting as smooth as a smooth-cutting pair of scissors.
Should I cut once more? I know the answer.
I must cut.

I will cut and consume,
Filling this empty void.
I will cut and consume,
Until the elder blood of my blood tells me I’m grounded for eating all the pie.

Don't worry. It's just a close up of cherry pie.


All These Pills

I long to be lost in my two-dimentional world,
Wandering the gaps of a sharp, meandering maze.
Ghosts breathing down my neck,
As I engorge on an overabundance of pills.

But here I lay in tedium,
Staring at the ceiling of this suburban prison.
Until the maternal creature with which I dwell,
Releases me of the binds of this groundation.

                So that I may go play Pac-Man in the basement.

Disturbing Pacman Art

In This Room

This room is dark,
But I wish it more blinding.
The blackest of blacks,
Is out of my grasp.

I’m adorned in shadows,
From my neck to my boots.
But I’ll never be consumed by darkness, my friend,
For I have blonde hair.

                And the wench won’t buy me black hair dye.

My transformation is almost complete.

14 comments:

  1. I love it. I'm a huge fan of angst-ridden teen poetry. The local college here publishes college student poetry, and man, those little goth kids know how to lay down some terrible terrible angsty nonsense. I'm just glad the weird stuff I wrote as a kid never saw the light of day.

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    1. I took a few poetry classes throughout my life, though I mostly wrote about nature. They always, unintentionally, had some screwed up underlying theme that I never intended to include. So I gave up poetry so that I wouldn't be chased out of town. But, angst-ridden teen poetry will always have a place in my bleeding, lonely heart of pain.

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  2. Awesome stuff. "All these pills" is deep. Deeper than a really deep bucket at the bottom of a well.... a dark well. :)

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    1. Deeper than a poem of lesser deepness and darker than a dim-lit room.

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  3. This was so deep. Deeper than I cut myself after reading this poetry. I hope those horrible monsters known as parents eventually let their little darling out to play. His grounding seems to have gone on forever.

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    1. But, the real question is: Would we be able to analyze these unnerving poems if not for his groundings? Did his parents actually do him service?

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  4. That first one perfectly captures how I felt during the holidays after wrapping a bajillion presents.

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    1. I had to wrap some presents last week, and I almost intentionally let the scissor slip a few times. Damn my cursed Post-Christmas Wrapping Stress Disorder (PCWSD).

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  5. Dark, dark stuff. Darker than the darkest room whose walls have been coated with tar. I'm have to go now and retrieve my Leonard Cohen CDs.

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    1. Get some Songs of Love and Hate pumping, but leave out the love, I only deserve hate in this dismal abyss.

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  6. That kid is brilliant with his metaphors. His line about a knife cutting as smooth as a smooth-cutting pair of scissors pierced my heart like a heart piercing stapler.

    I mean, he's no Adam Gabsi, but the talent is definitely there.

    http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NrFNPjqquqU/Uedc2x_cj8I/AAAAAAAAM5g/sXjbWMprmTc/s1600/Possibly-the-worst-poem-Ive-ever-read-I-dont-care-if-he-is-in-second-grade.jpg

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    1. Sad part is that Adam Gabsi sounds like the type of name a reputable writer would have.

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  7. Wow! Pass me a bucket for my bleeding heart!! Love that he refers to his own mother as 'the maternal creature'! HA!

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    1. I pity his misfortune of having such a careless maternal monster. May he one day find happiness in his otherwise dark and suffocating life.

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