broken bikes

of perks

i read a book yesterday

i read it cover to cover

it had a green front

and a long title

and the author's last name

was a cluster of consonants

it was beautiful,

a great creation of

emotions and thoughts and truths,

woven together with

the utmost of talent,

into something magnificent

the main character

was a chaotic mess

of happiness and unhappiness,

and had i not been holding the spine

of the novel in my grip,

i would have thought i was him

i fell in love

with the girl he loved;

her pixie cut

and her who gives a shit attitude

and her belief

that she does not deserve affection

i laughed

and i cried

as i got acquainted

with the goofy gay guy

who was being utterly fucked over

by the school's quarterback

but when my breath

hitched in my throat

at the thought that mary elizabeth

had been glossed over

because she was not the prettiest in his eyes,

i felt my resolve waver

what kind of person

chooses someone else

over his own girlfriend?

and then i realized,

the main character was just like me;

i might've done the same

two hundred and thirteen pages,

and it was not nearly enough

because the embodiment of my brain

and my imagination

cannot be merely summarized

within such a small number

even the title

is what i am living

every day

of my meager life;

the perks of being a wallflower,

by stephen chbosky

>> one of my absolute favorite books (and also definitely one of my favorite poems that i've ever written). i take no credit whatsoever for the references to the novel in this poem, it all goes back to the author, stephen chbosky. all i did was fit a few extra words around the integrated slivers of the plot.