We do, doodley do, doodley do, doodley do,
What we must, muddily must, muddily must, muddily must;
Muddily do, muddily do, muddily do, muddily do,
Until we bust, bodily bust, bodily bust, bodily bust.

Oh, dear.

I just found some of my old poems.
Most of them are just the general angst-jargon that most every teenager produces in early puberty: “Woe is me! Life is pain! Waaaah”

Fortunately, I had enough mind to save some of my earlier poetry, also. 4-5th grade stuff. Here’s my personal favorite from early in my 5th grade year:

“The Eyes”

It was a night that differ not from this one
When I heard a tapping at my window pane
It was a sound I could not quite figure
As I looked at the ceiling
Ignoring the sound
The window tapping became a pound
Remember now
Nothing more
Than pushing myself up off the floor
I yanked the rags that hung from the ceiling
Which found themselves lying on the floor
As I stare into the night I see him
HIs evil glowing eyes fuller than the moon itself
Sitting there as if nothing more
Than a piece of garbage on the floor
I turn around to hear it begin
A tapping sound
Again
And again
I turn to see him there
Standing by the wall
Then I saw them
I saw them all
Howling loud and sitting tall
They stared at me with their golden eyes shining like the moon
And then their howling was not just howling
But a crazy tune
The tune went on for half the night
Maybe even more
And right before I fell asleep
I heard it at my door
I ignored the sound and tried to sleep
But then the something began to creep
As I reached for the light I saw them
All sitting in a row–
Four furry little kittens
Nipping at my toes!

Tonight was cold—frigid—the kind of cold that numbs your limbs and makes claws of your fingers.

In doing my philosophy final I’ve only just now realized that my text book repeatedly refers to God as a “she”.

“Sorry,” …”I would say, ‘Is there anything I can do?’– but someone once told me that that was the most hateful and stupid expression in the English language.

“Will people never stop asking that dreadful question?”

The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heavens sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.

Kurt Vonnegut
A Man Without A Country

Are we all in the process of decomposing?
Are all our bodies in silent, stubborn revolt against solidity?
Do our appendages secretly yearn for separation,
for the same pleasure that comes from making two worms from
one?

Yeah, that’s right I’m being stubborn.

“I think puddles exist to splash in when you’re happy and to sit in when you’re sad.”