Slayersnipponesegirl• Show poetry

i'm not really 18 but PLZ don't tell the admins because i don't want to be blocked ok?? i'm a teenager (not telling you my real age stalkers LOL) so i think I should be aloud to read "adult' poemtry.

umm.. yeah...
I'm really new to AP so please be kind to me!! i looove anime and japan and japanese culture and japanese food and, well, JAPAN so yeah... i think my name and picture represent that well LOL.

i drew all of my profile picture accept the main girl. shes from slayers THE BEST SHOW I LOVE IT TO DEATH ITS FUNNY AND EXCITING AND GOOD check it out ya'll@!

BYE!

PS: MY AP FAMILY:
AP ONIICHAN: elfdragongnome
AP SISTA: the emo prep
PLEASE MSG ME TO BE APART OF MY FAMILY :3

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ROCK ON MASTABATAS!!!!!!!!!!!

Isn't it funny that when you go to the shops with your friends you look down at the girl with black jeans and studs but smile at the girl wearing a mini with a t-shirt that barely covers anything?

Isn't it funny you can change your music taste to impress a guy but when it comes to a girl who likes her own music and her own style, you give her a mouthful?

ISN'T IT FUNNY that a guy can get away with being a gangsta but the emo gets a mouthful from everyone, are you laughing?

Isn't it funny an emo can be quiet all through the week but gets more shit from everyone than the girl who sleeps around and sells her virginity?
ISN'T IT FUNNY that you dont mind your friends drinking, smoking but the minute someone mentions emo music you can give them a lecture on melodramatic teenage outcasts?

I'm not laughing.

IT'S SO FUNNY that you and your friends can make a girls life hell and not know anything about the silent battle she might be fighting.

ISN'T IT FUNNY that you can call emos, punks, goths the retards but still manage to get through your day without an inch of guilt in your heart.

HOW YOU CAN CALL A GIRL A POSER? HOW CAN YOU SAY "YOUR NOT EMO" OR "ATTENTION SEEKER" WITHOUT SPENDING A SECOND TRYING TO FIGURE OUT WHY THERE ARE CUTS ON HER WRISTS AND WHY SHE SPENDS HER LUNCHTIMES CRYING INSTEAD OF LAUGHING WITH HER FRIENDS? KEEP ON LAUGHING isn't it funny you can say and do all this without any idea of what is going on in this persons life without knowing her situation with her friends or herfamily or her life BRAVE ISN'T GOING UP ON STAGE AND STRIPPING! BRAVE IS NOT SAYING A SPEECH OR DUMPING YOUR BOYFRIEND! BRAVE IS GOING TO SCHOOL ON MUFTI DAY AND NOT FOR A SECOND CARE WHAT THE WHORES AROUND YOU ARE SAYING ABOUT YOUR CLOTHES! IT'S LISTENING TO YOUR OWN MUSIC AND BEING PROUD OF IT! IT'S GOING THROUGH EVERY DAY WITH THE THINGS PEOPLE SAY TO YOUR FACE AND BEHIND YOUR BACK AND YOU STILL KEEP QUIET.

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Some Foreign Letters

I knew you forever and you were always old,
soft white lady of my heart. Surely you would scold
me for sitting up late, reading your letters,
as if these foreign postmarks were meant for me.
You posted them first in London, wearing furs
and a new dress in the winter of eighteen-ninety.
I read how London is dull on Lord Mayor's Day,
where you guided past groups of robbers, the sad holes
of Whitechapel, clutching your pocketbook, on the way
to Jack the Ripper dissecting his famous bones.
This Wednesday in Berlin, you say, you will
go to a bazaar at Bismarck's house. And I
see you as a young girl in a good world still,
writing three generations before mine. I try
to reach into your page and breathe it back…
but life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.

This is the sack of time your death vacates.
How distant your are on your nickel-plated skates
in the skating park in Berlin, gliding past
me with your Count, while a military band
plays a Strauss waltz. I loved you last,
a pleated old lady with a crooked hand.
Once you read Lohengrin and every goose
hung high while you practiced castle life
in Hanover. Tonight your letters reduce
history to a guess. The count had a wife.
You were the old maid aunt who lived with us.
Tonight I read how the winter howled around
the towers of Schloss Schwobber, how the tedious
language grew in your jaw, how you loved the sound
of the music of the rats tapping on the stone
floors. When you were mine you wore an earphone.

This is Wednesday, May 9th, near Lucerne,
Switzerland, sixty-nine years ago. I learn
your first climb up Mount San Salvatore;
this is the rocky path, the hole in your shoes,
the yankee girl, the iron interior
of her sweet body. You let the Count choose
your next climb. You went together, armed
with alpine stocks, with ham sandwiches
and seltzer wasser. You were not alarmed
by the thick woods of briars and bushes,
nor the rugged cliff, nor the first vertigo
up over Lake Lucerne. The Count sweated
with his coat off as you waded through top snow.
He held your hand and kissed you. You rattled
down on the train to catch a steam boat for home;
or other postmarks: Paris, verona, Rome.

This is Italy. You learn its mother tongue.
I read how you walked on the Palatine among
the ruins of the palace of the Caesars;
alone in the Roman autumn, alone since July.
When you were mine they wrapped you out of here
with your best hat over your face. I cried
because I was seventeen. I am older now.
I read how your student ticket admitted you
into the private chapel of the Vatican and how
you cheered with the others, as we used to do
on the fourth of July. One Wednesday in November
you watched a balloon, painted like a silver abll,
float up over the Forum, up over the lost emperors,
to shiver its little modern cage in an occasional
breeze. You worked your New England conscience out
beside artisans, chestnut vendors and the devout.

Tonight I will learn to love you twice;
learn your first days, your mid-Victorian face.
Tonight I will speak up and interrupt
your letters, warning you that wars are coming,
that the Count will die, that you will accept
your America back to live like a prim thing
on the farm in Maine. I tell you, you will come
here, to the suburbs of Boston, to see the blue-nose
world go drunk each night, to see the handsome
children jitterbug, to feel your left ear close
one Friday at Symphony. And I tell you,
you will tip your boot feet out of that hall,
rocking from its sour sound, out onto
the crowded street, letting your spectacles fall
and your hair net tangle as you stop passers-by
to mumble your guilty love while your ears die.
- Anne Sexton