Old, and I wish it was new.

Just because you're a fucko who takes everything the wrong way, doesn't mean I can't care a bit for you!

I need to start hearing honesty like that again, I miss it.

Destiny.

Who even knows?
I feel like change should come, but it isn't.
Need a catalyst.
Waiting is for dead people, I just don't know what to do about it.

Really?

Blast out your brains.
Thumping and pumping, ripping and searing
the simplicity of a thought, and the difficulty of explaining it.
And the difference of pleasure and discomfort.
It doesn't work unless it's blasting out your brains.
Subtlety is just lost if it's heard with ignorant ears
so it needs to blast out your brains, break through that mould
where should you look for inspiration? Rainbows? Romance?
Or the little pain, because after all, good always comes out of bad.
After all, happiness is overrated.
After all, happiness is boring.
After all, meaning is dumb.
It is the variation that keeps us on, not the chugging constant
and the slap in the face, not the peaceful hand.
Boredom id boring, and unenthusiastic.
Shivering, unchanging.
Commas are annoying and repetitive and should die.
So should and.
And fullstops, after a while, loose meaning and become a waste of space.
Shut up, you talk too much.

'Only after disaster can we be resurrected.'

Indizzle.

Honesty.

Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it "Chops"
because that was the name of his dog
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and a gold star
And his mother hung it on the kitchen door
and read it to his aunts
That was the year Father Tracy took all the kids to the zoo
And he let them sing on the bus
And his little sister was born
with tiny toenails and no hair
And his mother and father kissed a lot
And the girl around the corner sent him a
Valentine signed with a row of X's
and he had to ask his father what the X's meant
And his father always tucked him in bed at night
And was always there to do it.

Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it "Autumn"
because that was the name of the season
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and asked him to write more clearly
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because of its new paint
And the kids told him
that Father Tracy smoked cigars
And left butts on the pews
And sometimes they would burn holes
That was the year his sister got glasses
with thick lenses and black frames
And the girl around the corner laughed
when he asked her to go see Santa Claus
And the kids told him why
his mother and father kissed a lot
And his father never tucked him in bed at night
And his father got mad
when he cried for him to do it.

Once on a paper torn from his notebook
he wrote a poem
And he called it "Innocence: A Question"
because that was the question about his girl
And that's what it was all about
And his professor gave him an A
and a strange steady look
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because he never showed her
That was the year that Father Tracy died
And he forgot how the endof the Apostle's Creed went
And he caught his sistermaking out on the back porch
And his mother and father never kissed
or even talked
And the girl around the corner
wore too much makeup
That made him cough when he kissed her
but he kissed her anyway
because that was the thing to do
And at three A.M. he tucked himself into bed
his father snoring soundly

That's why on the back of a brown paper bag
he tried another poem
And he called it "Absolutely Nothing"
Because that's what it was really all about
And he gave himself an A
and a slash on each damned wrist
And he hung it on the bathroom door
because this time he didn't think
he could reach the kitchen.
-Osaonon Nimuss, in "The Perks of Being a Wallflower"

My friend thinks its a very poignant poem, I agree with her.

P.s. I cheated by copying and pasting. I know. If it was handwritten it would be different, but I dont really like typing.