The most growing up I ever did was in 2007, surrounded by a rash of romanticism and black eyeliner. Internet culture cut deep as junior high chubbiness and rejection notes, passed during geography class.
The most growing up I ever did was in 2007, when I dreamed of scene, coontails and studded belts abounded around me, and gods rose, Kardashians of the emo realm.
The most growing up I ever did was in 2007. Longing turns vision to off-brand mall-goth— there was no precedent, no dark-inducing fear, just a brewing of hormones clumping and shaping a morning of jealousy, a dawning of envy. Foundation for the rest of days.
"So many poems growing outta them they're practically a poet-tree" — Gringoamericano
I really like BOTH of these but I especially like the second one! I really like when people incorporate years into poems or lyrics because it makes me wonder what I was doing then (I was ten in 2007, and I think I was a lot smarter then). I guess the other interesting thing about this poem to me is that- how is the MOST growing up this person ever did, how was it in that sort of super greasy kind of time. Though at the same time it makes sense because I think you do learn SO much in those times when you're at your most sort of... teenage, for lack of a better term, state. You're being exposed to the world and all sorts of new ideas and such that aren't tinted as much by care-givers biases. And yet at the same time, you are.
demons aren't in my vocabulary, and yet when incense smoke burns your eyes, you see flame under my feet, horns sprouting from my brow.
for you, i drew two cards, both swords. you would rather stab yourself than break bread with me, but my gods are honest about their vices, unlike your deity.
you call yourself monotheist, but you worship an aspect of three, father, son, and holy ghost-- love in the later chapters, but bloodsoaked murderers in the beginning, heralded by destruction and pillars of salt.
satan isn't part of my pantheon, but if he was, i'd say he was framed. a peaceful protester ejected from paradise for resisting authority. a serpent, perhaps, but who else would warn eve about the cruelest of kings?
"So many poems growing outta them they're practically a poet-tree" — Gringoamericano
There once was a golden bat who wore a velvet hat. His appearance was so dapper that it made his friends stagger, and all the bat ladies wanted to chat.
"So many poems growing outta them they're practically a poet-tree" — Gringoamericano
19 year-old Apollo lounges in the guitar section, sending rays of burning notes from fingertips to strings to atmosphere, mane curling around his shoulders like bronze wind—
I wish I could orbit him as a planet does, but I am only a moon.
"So many poems growing outta them they're practically a poet-tree" — Gringoamericano
A fat cat sniffs gingerly at a box of cookies half-hidden in my closet, three white candles rise, unlit, over my rock collection, blinds open to the last rays of day. My music crescendos like flowers emerging from buds, and I understand the subtleties of contentedness.
"So many poems growing outta them they're practically a poet-tree" — Gringoamericano
Have you ever had a thought rushing to you faster than a freight train and barreling into your stomach just as hard, so the wind rushes out of you in a whoosh--?
All you can do is lay there in bed staring at the bedside lamp, stroking the back of your own neck under your hair because you're alone and you need calming, like your old dog who was afraid of storms and the tremendous rattling of passing trains.
"So many poems growing outta them they're practically a poet-tree" — Gringoamericano
I met you when I was drunk out of my skull and just deciding that Satan had been framed, and I'm sorry about the fight.
This isn't a love poem or an aftermath, but a splash of dark watercolors already fading in sunlight. I was sick to my stomach when you twined your arm around my waist.
But I left your hands there, sadness pooling in my mouth-- I used to muster feelings of thanks for hot lips on my throat even when I hated it--
I'm still sorry about the fight, but not about your broken heart.
"So many poems growing outta them they're practically a poet-tree" — Gringoamericano
I am lost in the void between, listing westward over apathy, headed towards a lonely death, [maybe it's my meds talking, telling me that I am complete on my own. I know that you think this is a good thing] but no one waits in the harbor for me to weep and faint into my arms, and this is what I thought I had always wanted. But desire is not indiscriminate-- I am cold-hearted [whole?], a captain of my own ship, self-sufficient-- a self-forged curse, a noose around my neck.
"So many poems growing outta them they're practically a poet-tree" — Gringoamericano
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