Teen Poetry Collections

Not My Real Sandals

by a young man, age 13

I suppose they want to make everyone feel the same.

I haven’t stepped on real dirt for a long time.
Just yesterday, a lot of people here began to pick on me.
Someone bounced the ball off the wall
and hit me in the head on purpose.
It makes me feel homesick.

I haven’t gone out there in a long time.
I hate the isolation from the rest of the world.
I’ve had it at home.
My dad works graveyard.
When he’s sleeping, I come home from school
and my stepmom’s working.
There’s a lock on my door so I won’t go out.

I haven’t gone out there in a long time.
Sometimes I don’t care.
I don’t mind being in there.
I have things to do.
At home
my little brother stomps on the ground
and I get annoyed.
Now I miss it.

I haven’t gone out there in a long time.
My little brother saw me get cuffed.
He couldn’t get over it until he heard my voice on the phone.
I didn’t get to say goodbye to him.

I haven’t gone out there in a long time.
My real mom died.
I feel like any other person would:
sad, angry, too much all at once,
all bundled up inside me.
I think I could have done something about it.
It was a drug overdose.
I could have stopped her.
That made me act out.

I haven’t gone out there in a long time.
My crime was arson.
The only way they knew it was me was from the matches in my pocket.
I’m at a behavioral school.
I have a problem with authority.

So I end up isolated,
sleeping under a blurry window
behind these huge metal doors I can’t get through.

 

Dedicated to my little brother