Today I found this poem, written when I was 15, in an old notebook. I was looking for my birth certificate in old files to find out what time of the day I was born (for astrological purposes) when I found a journal of my somewhat tortured teenage self. In it, there was a lot of embarrassing rumination about a man I used to be consumed by in those days. He was much older than me, but looking back with my 20/20 hindsight, spent rather enough time with me to possibly be considered a bit of a pervert. There were drawings of him, to go with the ruminations, some time spent on my hatred for Algebra, loads of evidence of my generalized pubescent melancholy, and some poems like this one.
Heaven in that body
and my body just
This. Sweet soul music on those lips
and my lips just
Everyone knows my rain day.
Love that ranges over the ferris wheel
with the muse of lyric poetry,
smoking clove cigarettes while
the delicate surface of my age
chases me down the street.
What strange days.
Grey sky, yellow moon,
spinning colors and clear eyes;
looking for an angel over my shoulder
with the instruction from heaven
to this body.