Truth

so I spend all my time complaining
about the stupid things you said,
how you wouldn't let me in,
refused to give me attention,
every little sin.
but the truth is,
I'd give anything to go back
and have one more fight with you.

This came to me randomly all together, basically as a sentence but I thought it wold work well as a poem too.

Frustrated

aislynn cannot write
she wants to be art-noveau
her sister walks into the room
some days she wants to be a cheerleader
it is time for dinner
aislyn cannot write
notebooks and pens are not allowed at the table

the author does not know where the name aislynn came from
but she cannot write

there are peas in a bowl
it is made of white ceramic
and it has blue pastel flowers
and some words aislynn will not read
home sweet home

she takes the extra stairs
up to the room at the top of the house
she wants to be inspired
she cannot write
she forgot to bring a pencil

aislynn cannot write
it is time to go to bed
her brother is singing and her sister is playing drums
aislynn wants to play that video game

she cannot write

This is a poem written in the style of those weird stream-of-consciousness, art-noveau writers, who are currently driving me crazy along with the really good poem I just read that I cannot imitate.  I don't really like this poem because I would never write like that...

High School

horrible
is most often the adjective
used to describe
those often decrepit
(especially the basement grey-brick-style)
halls, packed with bodies,
a giant cattle car where
we push and shove
just to get where we all need to be
and sneak away
to get our daily smoke.

however,
i found that our halls
were cleanly, almost shining
and the principals
were obnoxiously good at breaking up fights
we yearned to witness
and some cheered on
and only the freshmen
ever prevented that all-important duty
of getting to class,
and only once
did a trashcan explode
in a storm of teenage angst
and rebellion, in the bathroom
after school, the one
where the cheerleaders
never went to change into their uniforms
and all the bored kids in math
went to skip class

but more importantly,
i came to observe
the most important thing
was that the hallway led off
into a room packed into the back of the school
with its own miniature
hallway of anticipation,
the last lap of the marathon,
columbus seeing land from the ship,
or sometimes only rarely
on mad days, decision days,
the walk from the prison
to the courtroom
except this courtroom always voted innocent,
even when the world bounced
on its axis
and we both thought
it would fall off entirely.

i cannot find
a single adjective
to describe the horror
or the pleasure
that was high school,
but i can define the one person
who made it anything but
the hellhole
most kids make it out to be,
for that room off that hallway
is and always will be
home.