Flashback Thursday: Teenage angst


Age 11 I decided time had come to get serious about this writing lark. Time wasn’t on any of our sides. All writers, as we know, write poems. Despite never having spoken to any writers or even read any poems, apart from the metafictional masterpiece ~ Jabberwocky ~ I set out to master this obscure art form. One I’ll admit I had not much care for – again apart from the metafictional masterpiece ~Jabberwocky~ though now I am wondering if its The Jabberwocky?

By the time I was deep into my teenage years, against my will, poetry and my inner angst had met, connected and were spending most of their time moping about under trees – actually mostly indoors looking out on falling leaves, I grew up in Scotland.

I was never one of those who found misery sexy – you know who you are, just own it… But… there was a teen in my age and a few other, actual reasons to be miserable. Most I will never share, many more I have lost, but here’s one that’s not too humiliating.. (you’d have to see the rest to fully understand that)

Reading this I am fifteen again. Okay, I may have worn some black nail polish once in a while..


There’s an ordinary girl

Walking down your street

With a bag upon her back

Her shoulders straight

There’s an ordinary girl

She’s lying on your couch

She’s got the hangover blues

Pretending she doesn’t remember

The drunken tales you tell

There’s an ordinary girl

Her numbers in your little black book

Her photo’s laughing on your wall

She’s the friend you know so well

This ordinary girl

Is just like all the rest

She wants to tear the skin from her face

This ordinary girl in her ordinary world

Won’t sleep tonight

For the bees raging in her head

In her ordinary room

On her ordinary desk

She gathers words like harvest

And arranges them

Oh so pretty

This ordinary girl

Is wrapped around an insane core

This ordinary girl

Walking down your street

Isn’t there at all.




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