Best Teenage Angst Poems
Even as a child of God -
when it came right down to it
she stood firmly on her child’s side -
not God’s
.. and damn
how I envied that..
my friend
much to my dismay
chose a parent
as a closest confidant
breaking all laws of teenage angst
and going against
all preconceived
conceptions, norms and nature
I watched as they walked
a harrowed path together
mom being there for child —
smugly snuggly hammocked
in her emotional safety net
.. and damn
how I envied that..
I walked my path alone
because my mother
would have chosen
God’s side...
.. and damn
how I now envy that..
Susan Ashley
September 9, 2018
~ Ninth Place ~
Contest: Truth Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Anthony Slausin
Collecting 45's, I could not wait
for albums of groups' greatest hits to be
released; one band I thought was pretty great
put out the album most well-liked by me.
Its psychedelic cover art was cool.
And Golden Bisquits was the album’s name.
I listened very often after school
to those songs that enjoyed radio fame.
“One,” (the Loneliest Number), fed into
my teenage angst; there was another song
called “Easy to be Hard.” When I was blue
those were the songs with which I’d sing along.
A song of novelty I loved to hear
entitled “Mama Told Me Not to Come.”
The singer, in a silly voice, feigned fear
of a party that he should escape from!
Twelve songs in all, romantic mostly, and
the album had that seventies rock beat.
It was the best deal I would ever get
of all my high school records. It was grand!
My 45’s and albums to this day
are in a closet. I don’t feel it’s right
to trash my youth. How could I throw away
good memories in songs by Three Dog Night?
Written 9/4/16 for Phillip Garcia's Rock 'n Roll Rhyme Fest poetry contest
(See above for links to songs off the album
Renegades Foreva!
Renegade teenage rage babes
thinkin’ they all grown, all knowin’
when they seedlin’s barely sown
bleedin’ teenage angst with teenage crankst
always rhymin’ and mis-timin’ some poetry-crimin’
mis-mashin', diss-bashin'
word-clashin' song
heard on some half-sappy, sex-happy,
yap-rap, smack-attack vid
made by some brotha who’s just anotha
angry angst-ridden
wannabe gangsta kid
With a street beat
they be hummin’ or singin’ along
repeatin’ the deceit
not knowin’ curse verses
are just plain wrong and mostly maligin’
while grownups in earshot
takin’ all them swearshots
wishin’ them words had sweeter rhymin’
or that kids be more discreet
would take their claptrap,
no-class, crass-crack lyrics
and just tweet ‘em or mime ‘em
But if ‘dults could go back, meet themselves
when they was punk teens
fittin’ into pre-shrunk his or her hunk jeans
listenin’, partyin’ to poppin’ rockin’
unusual musical junk boy band scenes
and lettin’ out star-struck
super-charged
groanal hormonal
no-one-could-understand gland screams
then they’d be amused ya know,
might change their views ya know
cause remind ‘em not so pristine
when child and ‘dult they was in-between
Kids always lookin’ to find
who they are and who they be
imprisoned involuntarily
in their youthful penitentiary
no matter what century they be from you see
So if thinkin’ rap sucks cause
it’s just no-class hurls and low-class slurs
then fire-up that flux capacitor of yours,
head back to yo’ past and meet yo’ younger him or hers
see your own rebelling mis-teen-stakes
then rapping notions you might reshape
or rapping judgments remake
or least maybe now tolerate new-age teenage
rapping outbreaks and in-yo-face ear-quakes
realizin’ that come whateva or wheneva
that all teens now, before an’ where-eva
will evamore and eva be
natural renegades foreva!
© 2014 all rights reserved
Tonight I speak to you,
with a sober mind that
keeps my memories vivid,
and a melancholy mood
that reflects the deepest
darkest depths of my
dangerous depression,
Sealed with heartache
Stamped with the hurtful
indiscretions of a man made
ignorant by the reality of a
loss that eradicated his soul,
Be it prudent to allow my
reminiscence to fade into
the infinite background of
forgotten brooded teenage angst
My memories are empowered
by love, and by such an emotion,
have denied my will and become
personified to the point of eternal
embodiment, grabbing my tongue
and squeezing out ink used to
express the immortal affection of
its own first and only creed,
Thus by the mutual compassion
once held by our hearts alike,
The monster of your imagination
was born to a world incapable of
comprehending the love of a
creature for the love of his creator,
A creature who hides his face
for he is hideous without you,
Crushed by the harrowing
lightening strike of being
condemned to a life without
the bolt of love that gave him
breath, he becomes the lost,
Yet he devotedly searches for you,
as I do, as we both breakdown
screaming and crying out loud,
in harmony, "Creator, please...
Love me again.."
I've reached beyond the age of RPM records
youthful addiction
My forty-fives tilt in a corner of the basement,
leaning tower of teenage angst,
Wrapped now in decades of neglect.
Why can't I dispose of you?
Clutter crime of nostalgia's pull
This craving for rock 'n roll renegades,
singers of weed-garden life
punishers of social rules
Ageless idols of grainy texture
in fraying fabrics, tie dyed
So many odes to love, longing, anger
Snippets of R n' R once bleeding from open windows,
like wanderers dancing in darkness
Charged rhythm once labelled
force of evil,
Musical clout like tattered boxing gloves
Limitless bliss to unstuck youth
Something to stagger to,
life's nimble recollection,
a secret world
of cherished entry
Implacable lyrics
that preserve themselves
in all that spins
(Poem revised July 2020 with 2 new stanzas added, along with a title change.)
With her very shapely thighs
And her nice firm bum
I can’t keep my eyes
Off my best mate’s mum
We could have fallen out
But we’re getting on fine
I’ve got my eyes on his mum
And he’s got his on mine
Ben’s sat in the corner
As our teacher called him bad
He’d pinched the teacher’s bottom
Which had made the teacher mad
The teacher should be flattered
And should not make Ben feel sad
But I’m a little worried
’Cause the teacher is my dad
Well, I stood up for Ben
It’s just his teenage angst
A trip to the head’s office
Was my only thanks
I stood outside the door
The sign just said ‘Headmaster’
Inside I heard my mother screaming
Faster baby, faster!
number 10.)
Appropriations will be cost effective only when mass production is labeled'for
esthetic use only'.
number 9).
All committee decisions must be based on my own and no one elses.
number8).
The 'sleek new modern' must be based on Baroque precepts that stem from
facistic-anarchical individualistic expression over the state.
number7).
The media is to be tightly controlled based on my novel
number6).
There is no number 6.
number 5).
The deliniation of taste will be non linear.
number 4).
I will be awash with cash I now don't have.
number 3).
Teenage angst will be programmed into everyone well into their eighties.
number 2).
There may be a number 2 in a parallel universe.
And the number one result When Artists Finally take over the World is........
ME!
I hear once more the lyrics of this song I'm listening to-
a gentle blast from my very youthful past,
and I am back in middle school,
an attractive skinny girl
despite the horn rimmed glasses
which have gotten me the nickname of “Four eyes”
and the large beehive hairdo
I have to rat with my comb painstakingly each morning.
I am in the music room of my eighth grade
practicing with Swing Choir,
the group that I’ve auditioned for
and am thrilled to be a part of.
A cute boy stands tall among all the others
in the back row of the male section.
We are all singing -
“This Guy’s in Love.
This guy’s in love with You.”
My heart is pounding with the melody
as I watch my current crush so longingly,
imagining he sings the words to me alone.
Could my life yet to be lived
ever compare to my happiest vivid daydreams?
“When you smile, I can tell we know each other very well.”
I think he sees me watching him. I look away.
This scene will be replayed again and again
in other classrooms
where I’ll be watching other boys
that I'll be crushing on
and hoping they are watching me as well.
But now, just for now -
I sing the words with my group -
“Don’t let my heart keep breaking. . .”
My soul fills with teenage angst.
Oh to be young again
with such sweet aching
not yet knowing I’ll soon be getting walked home from school
by that cute tall boy
named Chico.
Written Feb. 7, 2016 for the Solitary Moments Poetry Contest of Mystic Rose
The song is "This Guy's in Love" written by Burt Bacharach
and performed byHerb Alpert & The Tijuana Brass. (please hear it in the link above)
It's the midnight dance, last call before the lights go out and the harvest moon glows brightly in the darkness. The room is full with partners sweeping close, hand in hand, floating liltly across the floor, snug and tightly wrapped in each others arms, lips upon their necks. Eyes drift up slow gorged yet wanting then frantic, eyeing every masked face searching for another partner.
Witches grin,
envied green flowing into the arms of passion burned red devils.
Pumpkins glow,
with eerie lanterns waltzing with the Headless Horseman's horse.
Pale ghostly sheeted ethereal spectres,
gently clasp skeletal fingers with dainty delicacy.
Superman tingles the webbing of Spiderman,
with Wonder Woman caught between them.
Batman scowls
at Robin's teenage angst closeted tights.
Scary menacing clowns
throw punches at pocked faced zombies.
A frail wall flower pretty in soft and elegant pink
into the arms of the muscular strong Huntsman.
A piano player plucks the keys in black and white
as the debutante swoons, falling graceful into his arms
and the dance comes to an end.
Take 1:
Too much beauty is a problem,
So the pretty women say,
Many women can be threatened,
Mood swings like a pendulum
Never trusting in ‘fair play.’
So it hurts when they dismiss you
Best to not give you a chance,
You might try to steal their boyfriends,
Smugly now your faults imbue
Though you’ve stolen not one dance.
Competition can be fierce then,
Few believe these days in fate,
Their self-confidence can vanish,
No faith too in gentle men,
If the guy once shows up late.
Come on lassies, what’s your hurry,
Shouldn’t love be ‘laissez-faire?’
Ditching friends for men so slimy,
Dressed up in your finery?
Is your love so ‘ordinaire?’
Take 2:
Being smart too is a problem,
Life itself not hard enough,
Toughs that ambush after schools out,
There’s a gift in being dumb!
You think calculus is rough?
All young people want to fit in,
Live with hearts out on their sleeve,
Smart kids really do no better,
Though you’d think that they might win,
Teenage angst yields no reprieve.
Still my brain saved me from football,
Grinding work for adult thrills,
Qualified for cannon fodder,
Young boys think they have it all,
Girls and glory, mindless drills.
But the youth who show brain merit,
Though rewards are slow to come,
Find they bypass many hazards,
Foolish plans elaborate:
Author's now of their outcome.
Take 3:
Having bread is a conundrum,
Still ‘death,’ you win on a bet,
Jealousy makes you a pit bull,
Lost decorum stained your bum,
Reputation? Just forget!
Dreams of poor men are a half-truth,
Fueled by their desires unmet,
Riches, splendor all they think of,
‘Clark Kents’ enters glass phone booth,
Men inside still curse kismet.
People! Rich! That live in prisons,
That’s what our world has come to,
Iron fences blocking access,
Wealthy hold they’re denizens,
Why do they seem like they’re blue?
How did our world fall to misfits,
I’m a have, but you have not,
All one needs is just one bullet,
Don’t you think this is the pits?
Murderer lives on your lot.
Brian Johnston
Auguest 17, 2014
Born free, free of ego, free of hate.
Free of judgement about your mates.
No difference, no disparity.
Until teenage angst makes you aware.
Not alike after all, sexual stirrings that appall.
Must hide, not let on, Catholic church's biggest con.
Much confusion and disillusion.
No future free from care, just despair.
Makes me angry and appalled.
That we are blamed for how we're born.
For this Catholic church I'm full of scorn.
My sister called and read me
mundane lines of teenage angst
which came from a diary.
I laughed and called it drivel.
Where did she find such a thing?
She then revealed she found it
in my old dresser drawer.
Oct. 3, 2017 for the 'SEVENBITS' Poetry Contest of nette onclaud
Victory or defeat, it’s all bittersweet.
Mediocrity, I try not to be.
So I wore designer jeans,
Weighed a hundred fifteen.
To earn a spot in the cool kids’ books,
You’ve got to first have the looks.
May the in-crowd never die,
May their pride stay in their eyes.
May their crowns never dim,
‘Cause in life we never really win.
It depends on who we compete against.
This is no world for teenage angst.
I spent my adolescence writing lots of teenage angst
through poetry, and stuck with it, despite it being pants.
I’ve been to Open Mic nights, and risen through the ranks.
I don’t get heckled quite so much, and even get some thanks.
I’ve had some poems published, and felt my work improve.
It’s given me some confidence when I’m not in the groove.
I watch a brand-new poet. The first time that they’ve tried.
I clap, although I’m jealous, and thinking deep inside -
Oh crikey, not another better poet on the scene.
How come even novices are better than I’ve been.
I don’t want competition from someone just seventeen.
Oh crikey, not another better poet on the scene.
Everyone’s much cleverer, and wittier than me -
I’m slipping down the rankings. I’m in the bottom three.
I wish there was a talent freeze and some kind of embargo.
I wish I had a better rhyme than using Avocado!
Oh crikey, not another novice poet doing well.
It must be genes or talent. It’s such a living hell!
Poets used to start quite poor, get better bit by bit.
I hate all bleeding poets now. I wish they were more sh..
Lame lyrics of lost love penned by sweatered sirens
deep as divots, shallow as puddles
Doesn’t teenage angst get old by the time you’re thirty?
I’d think so, yet the lackeys lap it up like maple syrup
I derive my dirges from a deeper well
dredging the depths
the abyss of my essence
bringing it to the surface in buckets
thick as black molasses
ponderous to pour, painful to process
Reopening every wound
Exposing each scabrous scar
My lifeblood spread in red puddles on the floor
until I’m drained dry and there’s no more
not a drop remaining to be wrung out of me
Bruised, broken, and sore I struggle to strike the match
setting it all afire
throwing myself on the pyre