Teen Angst Poetry by a Thirty-Something Fatalist

Part One:

Those of us who’ve been through
traumatic or toxic relationships
have expertly learned
how to shut people out.

Some of us build walls around the heart,
emotional defense mechanisms
keeping people at arm’s length.

Me? I built a fucking castle.
Complete with hot tar traps
and archers in the ramparts.
And for a while,
I lived quite happily in there.

You and I fittingly met on a Friday,
the only day of the week with any
real possibility in its blood.

I was giving a speech
on the burden of expectation
when I finally looked your way.
The cobalt of your eyes sparkled
like a Confundus Charm,
removing my ability to speak.

I st-st-stuttered and you blushed.
It was there that I told myself,
in the middle of that introduction,
that I wouldn’t fall in love with you.

Then I heard your laughter,
and felt the warmth
that it brought to this cold boy smile,
and I knew it was a losing battle.

Part Two:

You’ve succeeded where many others often failed,
in demolishing ten years of Doomsday Vault Defenses,
laying siege to this old decrepit heart.

A prize of which you have no use for.

I’m not angry,
nor do I fault you,
people rarely love
what they can’t see.
It happens.

Never have two people
been so many worlds apart.
A fool’s hope, and a story
told ten years too late.

So, forgive me my assumption
that any one part of this was purposefully done.

Forgive me my shade;
in all its variety.

And please…
please forgive me my love,
of which I will continue
to give so freely from afar.

She

She invades my every notion
like a conquering force
stealing my ability to
articulate any single
cohesive thought.

Her voice lurks behind
every corner of my mind,
the loveliest fucking woman I know.

Her words drip
from technological advances
and linger like whispers in the ear.
I speak in semicolon pauses
whet with angst.

She’s a little sprite,
who fairy flutters my heart
with her fresh cut
lime and honeydew aroma,
reducing me to 9th grade poetry
and adolescent fear.

So I turn inward,
carrying myself to the river
that’s never failed
to quench a creative thirst.
I wade knee-deep into the
black and white.
But she’s beat me there
by a country mile.
Her laughter echoes
through the forest trees,
amplifying and projecting color
throughout my inner peace.
It’s a strange brew of pure magic
and uncensored truth.

I want to drink of her
until she’s a part of me.