A poem i wrote yesterday...
Surplus Angst

I think that when i was born
I fell out of the happy tree.
And was given as a remedy
an large bottle of teenage angst.
When i drank it regularly
i felt a strange efficiency
in writing tortured artist shite
wielding my pen with all my might
And o' it was a pretty flop
i reached the point i had to drop
the grammatical needs of society
all in the name of crap poetry
and thus i reach my twentieth year
and as it was as i still fear
theres plenty angst left in me yet
i think i just might start to fret
And so how will i combat this clause
to drink my surplus angst then pause
and plan to cause as much destruction
while im twenty the deconstruction
of everything that i should have been
why not carry on while im twenteen?

Possibly the last poetry i will ever write as a teenager (unless twenteen counts as a teenager..)
(Salbo_baggins, Wed 17 Aug 2005, 15:56, Reply)