The past catches up to you some idle birthday.
Make you crumble to the floor and ugly cry.
Her name is Larissa and this is my Ode.
I met her online.
When songs, music and Alanis meant the world.
We lived miles and miles and a few more kilometres apart.
I was an arrogant bitch with a penchant for the bleak and dark even then.
She was gay.
I frequented closets.
I wrote a poem once when I 14 called suicide.
I told her about it at the age of 16.
She interviews me for her school paper.
Asked me if I prolific.
I asked her what that meant.
She said do you write often.
I said no not really.
I write 5 minute poetry exclusively on boards.
On this fated birthday, I found out the following.
She grew up, got married and is definitely living my dream life.
I moved out of the closet straight into a basement.
I never married, never fell in love and only had contract jobs with the man.
Got crazy and now start at scratch.
I miss the days we'd send letters.
I miss my friend I've never met.
Please be my messenger.
Cause I've been deleted from her life.
One day before I'm 50 I'll write everyday poems.
One day we will go on and live our teenaged L.A dreams.
YOU ARE READING
Salad Days
PoetrySad poems from sad and angry times. Written from a juvenile time (14 years old) to older. That's what you get when you leave a teen to ponder reality. A pen hits reality harder than high school survival. Original Art from Vivianne Rheaume
