My Teenage Blues

God it hurts

being this awkward,

skin flaky, body oozing

pus and blood and I’m so

gangly that my bones rub

against one another and I swear

I’m like a piece of flint and

I’m combustible and I just

wish these shit would be over.

I just wish I could talk to

you without the light beaming

of my forehead or one of pimples

exploding like a cheap Mexican

firecracker or you seeing my

indented chest, but who am I kidding,

you’d probably just laugh anyway.

These teenage blues are killing me.

I write my poetry in the binds of notebooks

and the cracks of desks, underneath the gum.

For the most part it’s nonsensical but other

times it makes me feel good.

Maybe some future civilization will find it

and cherish me the poet laureate of

the past awkward civilization or maybe

I’ll show it to you when you’re older

and more learned and maybe you’ll like

it or maybe you’ll just pat me on

the head and walk away.