Rampaging through a diary;
Smashing the bottle so that
The message is distorted.
A means to an end, words spat

Onto the paper, like a foul taste,
Poorly digested. Bile forms
A palimpsest, retraced over its own anger
And wet from the thunderstorms

Of tears, and the pages tear
Too, but the quality is juvenile:
Emotions count for naught
In the pursuit of beauty. Vile

Thoughts choke rationality, denied
By the pulchritude of sonnets,
Pure love in the form of daisy chains:
Chains on wrists. A vapid vignette.

RATE THIS CHAPTER!

Author guidance for This poem

A poem about teenagers who write poetry in the throes of anger and angst, and the unavoidability of stereotypes.

updated Mar 14 '11 by Miserabilia