In my senior year of high school, I entered a little poetry phase. It was a very bittersweet, emotionally charged time for me, so I used poetry to cope. In no way do I think this is some deep, profound poetry. I was a beginner, and on top of that, a little angsty and embarrassing, but like I wrote in my last blog post, this poetry is shitty, and I continue to shit on it, but I deeply cherish it. I thought I might as well post it somewhere; maybe there's another emotionally charged teen out there that I can inspire with my amateur work to become even better than I was. So I thought, what's the harm in posting it? I hope you get some sort of entertainment out of this lol.

A Love Letter To Youth

Laced Velvet

By Brody Pagett

Weekly vacation to gas station pizza.

Soft cheese, arguing over Dad’s pc.

Water toys and rent-free, I have yet to see.

Once a holiday, now turned every day.

Burnt cheese, now turned a sleaze.

Once sweet, now turned “free.”

Newfound ego I don’t want to see.

Weight loss and fresh attention,

things you haven’t mentioned.

Prosaic love you must have forgot your gloves.

Velvet's been shed; ego's been fed.

Bark rubbed clean I wish I never seen. 

Angsty Teens and Windshield Dreams

By Brody Pagett

Angsty teen entrance me.

Entrance with niche media and poems about your dad.

Poems about your friend's dad,

how, “She’s gone bad,”

and yeah it’s real sad

but that's the latest fad.

Oh angsty teen entrance me.

Tell about the boy at the Walgreens

and how he promised to set you free.

How when checking you out,

he traded saline for peroxide while promising to be your bride.

–

Angsty teen, please entrance me.

Tell me about the girl from freshman year.

Three grades above you listening to The Strokes,

and defined by an unfinished stick-and-poke.

Then speak on her shitty boyfriend, 

how, “if it were me, I’d bomb that Walgreens.”

–

Angsty teens, talk about your windshield dreams. 

How you held hands yelling naïvetés 

how you swore to be

forever and free. 

Yet three months later,

She’d stick her head out a cheap-ass van screaming, 

“Nuke Possum Springs!”

Angsty teens have entranced me.

Tasha's Canopy

By Brody Pagett

I was 17 under Tasha’s canopy,  

surrounded by teenage remedies, 

looking up at what could be 

In her chandelier of red, yellow, green.

I seen reflections of me,

grown and “free,”

alone and bereaved,

reading bittersweet memories

through journal entries.

–

Surrounded by incoherent mumblings and crooked piercings, 

smoke flows from the window into the clearing–a man overhearing.

He stands there–my future self,

bottling the smoke,

before inhaling like coke.

Reminiscing on a time 

when my antlers were stuck in the trees 

of future memories

and how I’d sleep so early.

"I'll Write Shitty Poetry About You."

By Brody Pagett

At Natasha’s 18th birthday, 

I hope this doesn’t sound like a cliché.

That I spent hours after

writing about Ramona Flowers.

–

Baby Bangs and The Cure, 

confused and unsure.

I could take her out,

maybe push these homoerotic feelings offshore. 

–

We smile in ambiguity.

My best friend in another life,

or perhaps my doe-eyed wife.

I tell her she's my muse.

That between this blunt,

we were lovestruck on church pews,

or singing 1920s blues,

maybe dying in World War 2.

Now we're teenage losers,

no car or license.

Pacifists who now believe in science.

–

The party comes to its end 

and we’re no longer knee to knee.

I wonder when we’ll next meet, 

brief and free or long and diseased.

–

So, when you think of me, do you write?

Do you remember the shitty poetry we promised that night?

Dahlia 

By Brody Pagett

I saw her walking by 

With a special kind of shine 

Wrapped around some poser guy

And knew before long you’d be mine. 

So I took her out to a little shop 

Sixty dollars 

And she was hot.

I knew I’d be one with you

Poking holes for you to crawl into.

–

Anatomical love
A girl like you with me
Fits like a glove
And helps my insecurities  

I’ll carry you by my side
Always with me

Like bone to thigh

But this glove is tight

And you’ll put up a fight.

As you spit yellow 

I’ll pray you don’t go hollow.

Markiplier Bought A Gun

By Brody Pagett

“Markiplier bought a gun.”

It was so absurd I started laughing.

Then it hit me,

this can’t be undone.

Their colored hair hasn’t stood the test of time.

Maybe we need another rewind. 

This time you stay, and I’ll play.

Dye your hair, and I’ll pay. 

Just stay the same, 

keep your fame,

and never change.