Do you remember like I do,
the way we’d jump with giddy—
Or how we’d grit our teeth,
waiting for something to happen?
Your feeling,
A pulse that nipped the green off my leaves,
like I was holding something in my mouth,
something I couldn’t swallow.
A space between urge & action.
A pause before the pull,
where everything hangs,
and nothing falls.
A candle-age dream,
showing me how to walk.
A guardian spirit,
with the grace to talk.
Fishing for a whale,
to break the tide.
Pockets full of change from the wrong time—
I should trade them like marbles,
so that in hopscotch,
I only worry about tripping.
Notes app poetry
Easy to write at 3 AM in bed
With a bowl of Cheetos balancing on my stomach
Notes app poetry
Harder to convey
And say
Your juvenile heartbreak
In a way that lets others respect
Your words and your rhymes
Notes app poetry
Fun to write
But never fun to publish
Do you want people to mock you?
The verses you worked so hard to handcraft
Read like teenage angst
With arbitrary line breaks
Instead of a serious confession to the person who sits behind you in 2nd period
I write with a pen
Because ink is permanent
Instead of the fleeting emotions we have
During the night
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
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!
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.)
I was there
when you were born
hand holding
tear drying
urging her on
I was there
for your first tooth
your first steps
wobbly at first
your first day at school
your purple jumper
that you hated
I was there
with your teenage angst
except it wasn't
now I know why
and I watch
as you become she
from he
so brave
so beautiful
I am there.
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.
Summer can’t wait for I
When the dusk
Carries the sun
Past it’s bedtime.
When teenage angst
Causes midnight walks
And the crisp air
Brings the sweaters out.
We use them
To hide
To cover our faces
But what do we have
To be ashamed of?
Our colours?
Or the way
They glow in the darkness?
The atmosphere
It snaps
At our faces
Like the angry parents
Who call us rebellious.
In times like these
We are all in one
Or one in all.
Together for an instant
In the night.
A fresh of breath air
One that
Walks
Talks
Breathes
Just like the rest of us
She is on her own
On a night like this.
But she breathes
In
And remains the same
Like she was
Perfect
All along.
Like she knows
Herself
As well as we do
Like she is
Who she is supposed to be
No fooling around.
I stare at her
When she stares back at me
The reflection
On the store window
Distorted from the night sky.
We are one in all
And one in the same
She is me
I have her name.
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
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..
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
ANCIENT roads lead to nowhere
& teenage angst is so pitiful
,a selfless-born floats like
every payment dad made for
my straight teeth; so sue me!
it's so strange to be me
it's so deranged like you
so says i with a fake halo
colored like spiteful gods
who want to always sing
so sing with me too
a sweet tooth like
my eternally
aching heart
bury me with you
so nothing comes between
us anymore ~ so bitter
to live so sweet to die!
:: 02-02-2017 ::
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.
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
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.