As I went to my basement to look for something, I found these two notebooks from when I was 14. And there was a lot of funny poetry in them. I read them and scaresely recognized the boy who wrote them. Here is a sample from one of the poems:
(They bombard me with questions
and answer themselves
while I look baffled)
The sibilating silence outside the classroom
reflects the mood inside
No one speaks, anxiety dwells
on every unfriendly face
The painted face of the afternoon gets pale
Evening gently takes over
with her red lips and eye shadows
As we stare at each other still sitting
How does silence sibilate? I wonder.
There was also a very long and heartfelt dedication. One day when I have nothing to write, I shall reproduce it for fun.
Is it OK to make fun of the 14 year old, even if he was me?
