This is the section devoted to Poetry. I might add some songs in here which to me are just like poetry. Me I I have blond hair/ I pluck my eyebrows/ I have my father's nose/ my mother's hands/ I have crooked teeth/ and green eyes/ I play guitar/ I used to get sick alot/ I like the colour of wine/ I've cheated on boyfriends/ I've owned fake ID/ But my hair is still blond/ And my teeth are still crooked. And I probably won't always like/ the colour of wine II I have firm breasts/ I have lips that always simle/ I have veins that bleed/ I laugh when I'm nervous/ I feel the pain of others/ but cry for no reason/ I like open flame/ I've been selfish since a child/ I'm from Alaska/ but hate the cold/ I've cheated on diets/ I've faked applications/ but I still bleed/ and my lips still smile/ and my breasts won't/ always be firm III I have stong shoulders/ I have loive skin/ I have a swiss face I/ borrowed from my grandmother/ I have long nails on my right hand/ which break regularly/ my little toe is strange/ I write/ I used to make wreaths from dandelions/ I brush my hair before bed/ I cheated on tests/ I fake firtatious French accents/ But I still have gold skin/ and m nails still break/ and I probably won't always have/ stong shoulders/ and I may not always write/ but maybe I'll start/ making wreaths/ from dandelions Faith Poem I don't know how to do anything/ I am trying to move mountians with wors/ but I am an ant/ I scribble/ I drool/ I move like a worm/ whose world/ (words)/ encompassed a mile/ How do I rise above?/ where will this worm/ find wings?/ I looke in the mirror/ and I see filth/ Who is that?/ where did the angle go?/ why is there dirt/ staring back at me?/ why is the soil of/ incompetence beneath my nails?/ why does doubt pain. blue rings/ beneath my eyes and/ stain my skin?/ why does my spine assume failure/ why do my lips flirt with the sky;/ why do I try to lasso/ beaut with such a pitiful rope?/ where is the hair of Rapunzel/ or Samson?. Where is my sling/ where is my stone/ my gun?/ where is the weapon with which/ I may fight this apathy/ that feels like sleep/ in my limbs / that loosens my brother's smile/ that kills my neighbour's daughter/ this pen is scrawny and hardly/ seems able to ink out/or erase this plague that/ infests my/ Generation/ This Giant, this ogre/ This beast, this death? That assumes a million faces /that borrows my own Upon Moving Into My Van Joy, pure joy/ I am what I always wanted/ to grow up an be/ Things are becoming more/ of a dream/ with each waking day/ The heavy brows of Daily Life/ Are becoming encrusted/ with gliter and the shaking finger/ of consequences is beginning/ to giggle/ Grumpy old men have wings/ Burns sport halos/ and everyday dullness/ has begun to breathe/ as I remember the/ incredible lightness of living
This is the section devoted to Poetry. I might add some songs in here which to me are just like poetry.
Me
I
I have blond hair/ I pluck my eyebrows/ I have my father's nose/ my mother's hands/ I have crooked teeth/ and green eyes/ I play guitar/ I used to get sick alot/ I like the colour of wine/ I've cheated on boyfriends/ I've owned fake ID/ But my hair is still blond/ And my teeth are still crooked. And I probably won't always like/ the colour of wine
II
I have firm breasts/ I have lips that always simle/ I have veins that bleed/ I laugh when I'm nervous/ I feel the pain of others/ but cry for no reason/ I like open flame/ I've been selfish since a child/ I'm from Alaska/ but hate the cold/ I've cheated on diets/ I've faked applications/ but I still bleed/ and my lips still smile/ and my breasts won't/ always be firm
III
I have stong shoulders/ I have loive skin/ I have a swiss face I/ borrowed from my grandmother/ I have long nails on my right hand/ which break regularly/ my little toe is strange/ I write/ I used to make wreaths from dandelions/ I brush my hair before bed/ I cheated on tests/ I fake firtatious French accents/ But I still have gold skin/ and m nails still break/ and I probably won't always have/ stong shoulders/ and I may not always write/ but maybe I'll start/ making wreaths/ from dandelions
Faith Poem
I don't know how to do anything/ I am trying to move mountians with wors/ but I am an ant/ I scribble/ I drool/ I move like a worm/ whose world/ (words)/ encompassed a mile/ How do I rise above?/ where will this worm/ find wings?/ I looke in the mirror/ and I see filth/ Who is that?/ where did the angle go?/ why is there dirt/ staring back at me?/ why is the soil of/ incompetence beneath my nails?/ why does doubt pain. blue rings/ beneath my eyes and/ stain my skin?/ why does my spine assume failure/ why do my lips flirt with the sky;/ why do I try to lasso/ beaut with such a pitiful rope?/ where is the hair of Rapunzel/ or Samson?. Where is my sling/ where is my stone/ my gun?/ where is the weapon with which/ I may fight this apathy/ that feels like sleep/ in my limbs / that loosens my brother's smile/ that kills my neighbour's daughter/ this pen is scrawny and hardly/ seems able to ink out/or erase this plague that/ infests my/ Generation/ This Giant, this ogre/ This beast, this death? That assumes a million faces /that borrows my own
Upon Moving Into My Van
Joy, pure joy/ I am what I always wanted/ to grow up an be/ Things are becoming more/ of a dream/ with each waking day/ The heavy brows of Daily Life/ Are becoming encrusted/ with gliter and the shaking finger/ of consequences is beginning/ to giggle/ Grumpy old men have wings/ Burns sport halos/ and everyday dullness/ has begun to breathe/ as I remember the/ incredible lightness of living