2:09 am on a Friday.
Just like me, this poem has no purpose, so before I begin I will disclaim that you have no obligation to listen to my dictation of everything that coincides inside my mind in the late hours of twilight. Grab your passport and don't dress light; because if you read far enough to reach the crescendo of my cortex then you're liable to get frost bite. I sometimes dream of a lesser concentration of melanin in my skin cells. The world around me fills my ears with whispers that feel like shouts, sneak dissing my complexion. I dream of everything in the world that'll make me reach "life goals" set and ordained by society; in so that I wouldn't miss out on the opportunity to approach a gorgeous female with first running a mental checklist of all my insecurities. I've just recently learned to smile; even if my jagged "snaggle tooth" is crooked too the roots. I love myself that much. I used to think love would something you could define; putting my feelings aside to assure that you're heart survives, while I load a fighter jet with C4 and kamikaze mine. But I've learned defining love give it constraints that I have no physical authority to give; all i know is that I will love hard and forgive. After all God forgives me 77 • 7 times a day and if I can find a shred of that in someone; I wish to marry today. I fantasize about getting onto a stage and releasing every feeling that I have, even if no one is in the audience. I guess that makes me a liar; because I write poetry for myself, but at the same time I "society check" it to make sure any of this is anything worthy to be presented. Wether in a brown paper bag or on a silver plater. However the latter suggests that we all crave validation, through the number of likes to the termination of 36 selfies all of which you looked just as beautiful in the deceased 19th one as you did in surviving 32nd one. So in a sense, thank you. Thank you for listening to me ramble on and on about whatever popped into my mind in this early hour. Thank you for viewing the black and white on the screen as yin and yang of ink and blank paper rather than that of the world racial climate. Thank you for seeing me, not as a peer, a poet, or a guy who has too much free time on his hands or whose sleep schedule is going to be screwed in the following weeks to come; rather thank you for seeing me as that little kid we all once were laying in bed after we'd tucked ourselves in, night light on, in our favorite pajamas, and minutes before we'd drift to sleep, ponder our understanding of life as we knew it. Without the worry of term papers, test scores, wether "they" liked you back, or wether you're strong enough to live the life you're living. I say this because we all long to be that little kid again.
Thanks for sticking with me for the whole 541 words.
- Truly Yours,
Chester.
(P.s technically 549 words now)
YOU ARE READING
Highschool Misfits
PoetryThis is a compilation of stories , poetry, and events from the minds of high schoolers.
