Epistle to the Teen Poet

My words do not mean anything

They are just emotionless sound.

The friction of my lips,

The dictation of my tongue against my teeth,

The spit slurring all around

Sloshing, like sloppy waves against a lazy seashore.

See, I am sure you’ve heard this description before.

“The picture of an upset adolescent, taking you through a ‘pic’ tour

A museum of the still broken memories it holds, on each floor

A different situation of guilt or anger, it must store to stay in business.

This teen needs to sell more stories of their worries about sex, drugs, and war.”

The generic young poet has a devastating ending that even he or she cannot write.

Their speech will not be enjoyed, their words not credited,

The poet found void no matter how much they have edited

Because they must crank the words out, say them once again,

“I, am, sad, here’s why-”

“I, am, mad, here’s why;”

“I, love, this, can’t cry-”

“Can’t cry… can’t cry...”

I can’t try any harder at this than how much I already have!

Somedays I feel I’ve said all I can, other days I’m just glad

I’ve even conceived the words that I still want published.

That I have breathed the words that keep my head above this

constant state of monotonous depression

Teen poetry has long surpassed just obsession.

If you ain’t make the cut, then your dream will be crushed

Make sure to grammar check your ticket home on the bus.