Poetry by the Emo Child

At the Bus Stop

They think they're funny, the uber twinks
Speaking louder for my benefit
"Rocky Horror playing somewhere, freak?"
I turn slowly, stare, and lick my lips.

I ignore both of them, as they giggle about the weekend ahead
Whoring themselves to whoever kicks the most touchdowns..
or whatever the hell those acne steroid freak boys do.

Then I see it--probably was a squirrel, before Goodyear got it.
Now it's a lovely compact model,
If you don't mind the oozing.

I find a suitable stick,
While the twinks pretend not to watch
Fearing, perhaps, I'll swing it in my wrath.
But no, delicately I pick up the pancaked vermin,
Angering the swarm of feeding flies,
And approach them, grinning--I show my filed fangs.

"Get away from us you freak!"
If I had a dollar for every time I heard that...
"Look!" I shout, "It's your soul on a stick!"
They run, their fear unmasked, up into a nearby yard.

I laugh, my favorite, crazy laugh.
The bus has already pulled up, and I step in
Enjoying a laugh with the young bus driver
As we watch the pit bull chase them from the yard.

I sit near the front as we pull away
The driver eyes me in his mirror,
While I contemplate his dreads
"You're insane," he smiles. "I like that"
He invites me to "party" with his friends that weekend.

I smile and say nothing.
I won't let my soul become a pancake
Just yet.