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Best Famous Teenage Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Teenage poems. This is a select list of the best famous Teenage poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Teenage poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of teenage poems.

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Written by Denise Duhamel |

Snow Whites Acne

 At first she was sure it was just a bit of dried strawberry juice,
or a fleck of her mother's red nail polish that had flaked off
when she'd patted her daughter to sleep the night before.
But as she scrubbed, Snow felt a bump, something festering under the surface, like a tapeworm curled up and living in her left cheek.
Doc the Dwarf was no dermatologist and besides Snow doesn't get to meet him in this version because the mint leaves the tall doctor puts over her face only make matters worse.
Snow and the Queen hope against hope for chicken pox, measles, something that would be gone quickly and not plague Snow's whole adolescence.
If only freckles were red, she cried, if only concealer really worked.
Soon came the pus, the yellow dots, multiplying like pins in a pin cushion.
Soon came the greasy hair.
The Queen gave her daughter a razor for her legs and a stick of underarm deodorant.
Snow doodled through her teenage years—"Snow + ?" in Magic Markered hearts all over her notebooks.
She was an average student, a daydreamer who might have been a scholar if she'd only applied herself.
She liked sappy music and romance novels.
She liked pies and cake instead of fruit.
The Queen remained the fairest in the land.
It was hard on Snow, having such a glamorous mom.
She rebelled by wearing torn shawls and baggy gowns.
Her mother would sometimes say, "Snow darling, why don't you pull back your hair? Show those pretty eyes?" or "Come on, I'll take you shopping.
" Snow preferred staying in her safe room, looking out of her window at the deer leaping across the lawn.
Or she'd practice her dance moves with invisible princes.
And the Queen, busy being Queen, didn't like to push it.

Written by Denise Duhamel |


 They decide to exchange heads.
Barbie squeezes the small opening under her chin over Ken's bulging neck socket.
His wide jaw line jostles atop his girlfriend's body, loosely, like one of those novelty dogs destined to gaze from the back windows of cars.
The two dolls chase each other around the orange Country Camper unsure what they'll do when they're within touching distance.
Ken wants to feel Barbie's toes between his lips, take off one of her legs and force his whole arm inside her.
With only the vaguest suggestion of genitals, all the alluring qualities they possess as fashion dolls, up until now, have done neither of them much good.
But suddenly Barbie is excited looking at her own body under the weight of Ken's face.
He is part circus freak, part thwarted hermaphrodite.
And she is imagining she is somebody else-- maybe somebody middle class and ordinary, maybe another teenage model being caught in a scandal.
The night had begun with Barbie getting angry at finding Ken's blow up doll, folded and stuffed under the couch.
He was defensive and ashamed, especially about not having the breath to inflate her.
But after a round of pretend-tears, Barbie and Ken vowed to try to make their relationship work.
With their good memories as sustaining as good food, they listened to late-night radio talk shows, one featuring Doctor Ruth.
When all else fails, just hold each other, the small sex therapist crooned.
Barbie and Ken, on cue, groped in the dark, their interchangeable skin glowing, the color of Band-Aids.
Then, they let themselves go-- Soon Barbie was begging Ken to try on her spandex miniskirt.
She showed him how to pivot as though he was on a runway.
Ken begged to tie Barbie onto his yellow surfboard and spin her on the kitcen table until she grew dizzy.
Anything, anything, they both said to the other's requests, their mirrored desires bubbling from the most unlikely places.

Written by Anne Sexton |

And One For My Dame

 A born salesman,
my father made all his dough
by selling wool to Fieldcrest, Woolrich and Faribo.
A born talker, he could sell one hundred wet-down bales of that white stuff.
He could clock the miles and the sales and make it pay.
At home each sentence he would utter had first pleased the buyer who'd paid him off in butter.
Each word had been tried over and over, at any rate, on the man who was sold by the man who filled my plate.
My father hovered over the Yorkshire pudding and the beef: a peddler, a hawker, a merchant and an Indian chief.
Roosevelt! Willkie! and war! How suddenly gauche I was with my old-maid heart and my funny teenage applause.
Each night at home my father was in love with maps while the radio fought its battles with Nazis and Japs.
Except when he hid in his bedroom on a three-day drunk, he typed out complex itineraries, packed his trunk, his matched luggage and pocketed a confirmed reservation, his heart already pushing over the red routes of the nation.
I sit at my desk each night with no place to go, opening thee wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo, the whole U.
, its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones, through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
He died on the road, his heart pushed from neck to back, his white hanky signaling from the window of the Cadillac.
My husband, as blue-eyed as a picture book, sells wool: boxes of card waste, laps and rovings he can pull to the thread and say Leicester, Rambouillet, Merino, a half-blood, it's greasy and thick, yellow as old snow.
And when you drive off, my darling, Yes, sir! Yes, sir! It's one for my dame, your sample cases branded with my father's name, your itinerary open, its tolls ticking and greedy, its highways built up like new loves, raw and speedy.

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Written by Maggie Estep |

Scab Maids On Speed

 My first job was when I was about 15.
I had met a girl named Hope who became my best friend.
Hope and I were flunking math class so we became speed freaks.
This honed our algebra skills and we quickly became whiz kids.
For about 5 minutes.
Then, our brains started to fry and we were just teenage speed freaks.
Then, we decided to to seek gainful employment.
We got hired on as part time maids at the Holiday Inn while a maid strike was happening.
We were scab maids on speed and we were coming to clean your room.
We were subsequently fired for pilfering a Holiday Inn guest's quaalude stash which we did only because we never thought someone would have the nerve to call the front desk and say; THE MAIDS STOLE MY LUUDES MAN.
But someone did - or so we surmised - because we were fired.
I supppose maybe we were fired because we never actually CLEANED but rather just turned on the vacuum so it SOUNDED like we were cleaning as we picked the pubic hairs off the sheets and out of the tub then passed out on the bed and caught up on the sleep we'd missed from being up all night speeding.
When we got fired, we became waitresses at an International House of Pancakes.
We were much happier there.

Written by John Berryman |

Dream Song 22: Of 1826

 I am the little man who smokes & smokes.
I am the girl who does know better but.
I am the king of the pool.
I am so wise I had my mouth sewn shut.
I am a government official & a goddamned fool.
I am a lady who takes jokes.
I am the enemy of the mind.
I am the auto salesman and lóve you.
I am a teenage cancer, with a plan.
I am the blackt-out man.
I am the woman powerful as a zoo.
I am two eyes screwed to my set, whose blind— It is the Fourth of July.
Collect: while the dying man, forgone by you creator, who forgives, is gasping 'Thomas Jefferson still lives' in vain, in vain, in vain.
I am Henry Pussy-cat! My whiskers fly.