Yeah, I'll be damned if this doesn't scream poorly-worded, angst-filled, teenage poetry. But it's far more personal than most of the stuff I post on here. So have at it. OTS. c4c.

"The Only Bones Rattling Were My Own"
We marched to the street beat.
Winter warmed with sick heat,
When all I wanted was to get lost in my bedsheets.
Snow cold and bold we made our houses into homes.
The first night I didn't sleep alone.
I found you young and already destroyed
By middle class, infantile, overreaching, mongoloids
And vibrating sex toys.
I wanted your every breath to be my last.
We'd found our faith cut from the lowest caste.
Drunken binges and funeral dirges couldn't hold us back.
I wanted to kill myself quietly, wouldn't waste a word.
Every cut, slashed in vain, rippled in your soft, angular plane
Spelled, "this is what it feels like to hurt".
When all we know is all we knew, yet distance
Keeps the spring in view. I miss the snow-soft skin
And lips of pale blue. I miss the alcohol tinged confessions
Of selfless truth. I miss the waking mistakes and love making
Underneath the Christmas tree. I miss the irony of living out
Some self-indulgent tragedy scribbled out in your teenage diary.

Last edited by NGD1313 at Oct 17, 2008,
Nice to see something less vague from you. Not that I don't like your more ambiguous work. I can see the personal connection with this, the whole piece just breathes and sucks the reader in.I liked the flow especially, the way the rhyming just seemed to naturally appear, and each line led on into the next, weaved together like a beautiful Indian tapestry. Having never experienced the "ANGST" - I've lived a sheltered ilfe so to speak, I nconnected and believed every word you said nevertheless. If you can make me believe and feel something I've never experienced, I think you've got it right.