Post by LisaRocksYourWorld, yo on Feb 18, 2003 12:02:36 GMT -5
This next piece took me a while... And it's not a poem, but more a poetically-written memoir... Or something. Anyway, I like it. Enjoy.
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They stood together, glowing. A milestone, a sight to behold. They were picked up on radar for miles around, satellite transmissions with unexplainable readings. Though the thermometer read much higher, the temperature in paradise was enough to send shivers through sticky, damp skin. Somehow legend believes even in the dead of winter they would have melted 6 feet of frozen powder while children in Bermuda shorts danced barefoot in the streets, waiting for the ice cream man.
The seasons were changing, the trees in paradise were going through their annual metamorphesis. She was stubborn, afraid, hypocritical. She always wore her hair the same, she never tied her shoes. Only shaved her legs if she dead had to. Hated conformity, longed for acceptance and only faced the outdoors with a protective layer of Maybelline. She dreamed of Manhattan, Andrew Lloyd Weber, Mann's Chinese Theatre. He was too hardcore for his own good. Too badass to tie his shoes. Studded belts and rubber bracelets. So anti-conformist, he danced with the beat of the anarchist drum. He dreamed of Cobain, garage band glory, teenage rebellion anesthetic oblivion. Snap, crackle, punk.
They never burned out, supernova, collapsing star. The inferno that fueled warm hands lessened, slowed, quieted to a whisper... 3, 2, 1... Nothing left but a single cinder. The slightest wind could silence it, the gentlest whisper could set it afire. Yet it waited, and it continues to await a future thats uncertain. Routines started. She still the overachiever packing quadratic equasions into the mind that will change the world, handing out political bumper stickers to unregistered voters, dancing on tired feet and reciting Shakespeare in a spare moment. He still the rebel who will change the world with his apathy, floating in mosh pits, scenewhore. They could have made music together, with his natural rhythm and her splendid quivering vocal cords.
Perhaps twice a day she stops periodically, a silence to the pencil-paper friction insanity. This was it. Cherry-flavored popsicle paradise had been reduced to a single Polaroid, filed in a random shoebox under the boxspring. She remembered the taste of his lips in processed air conditioning, the feel of a summertime tan, the side of him few had seen. She'd wonder what he was thinking at that moment, as she paused from the chaos and watched him in autopilot. She kicked herself like she did every day. It wasn't worth it. Rebels had no visible feelings. Although his leather jacket and motorcycle were simply metaphorical, he was no exception. She grew up with a boy turned awkward man, Arthur Fonzarelli of the new millenium. They were too different for a second glimpse at paradise, yet their shoelaces dangled just the same...
They stood together, glowing. A milestone, a sight to behold. They were picked up on radar for miles around, satellite transmissions with unexplainable readings. Though the thermometer read much higher, the temperature in paradise was enough to send shivers through sticky, damp skin. Somehow legend believes even in the dead of winter they would have melted 6 feet of frozen powder while children in Bermuda shorts danced barefoot in the streets, waiting for the ice cream man.
The seasons were changing, the trees in paradise were going through their annual metamorphesis. She was stubborn, afraid, hypocritical. She always wore her hair the same, she never tied her shoes. Only shaved her legs if she dead had to. Hated conformity, longed for acceptance and only faced the outdoors with a protective layer of Maybelline. She dreamed of Manhattan, Andrew Lloyd Weber, Mann's Chinese Theatre. He was too hardcore for his own good. Too badass to tie his shoes. Studded belts and rubber bracelets. So anti-conformist, he danced with the beat of the anarchist drum. He dreamed of Cobain, garage band glory, teenage rebellion anesthetic oblivion. Snap, crackle, punk.
They never burned out, supernova, collapsing star. The inferno that fueled warm hands lessened, slowed, quieted to a whisper... 3, 2, 1... Nothing left but a single cinder. The slightest wind could silence it, the gentlest whisper could set it afire. Yet it waited, and it continues to await a future thats uncertain. Routines started. She still the overachiever packing quadratic equasions into the mind that will change the world, handing out political bumper stickers to unregistered voters, dancing on tired feet and reciting Shakespeare in a spare moment. He still the rebel who will change the world with his apathy, floating in mosh pits, scenewhore. They could have made music together, with his natural rhythm and her splendid quivering vocal cords.
Perhaps twice a day she stops periodically, a silence to the pencil-paper friction insanity. This was it. Cherry-flavored popsicle paradise had been reduced to a single Polaroid, filed in a random shoebox under the boxspring. She remembered the taste of his lips in processed air conditioning, the feel of a summertime tan, the side of him few had seen. She'd wonder what he was thinking at that moment, as she paused from the chaos and watched him in autopilot. She kicked herself like she did every day. It wasn't worth it. Rebels had no visible feelings. Although his leather jacket and motorcycle were simply metaphorical, he was no exception. She grew up with a boy turned awkward man, Arthur Fonzarelli of the new millenium. They were too different for a second glimpse at paradise, yet their shoelaces dangled just the same...
I'm in awe. Speechless. Wow, Lisa. 
