Teenage Angst

Here I anthropomorphize,
Shrouded by my despondency I snivel.
Snivel for your floccinaucinihilipilificating sentiments.
I drink your indolence like the Gatorade of lassitude.

My despondency is incarcerated by your Saint Elmo's Fire.
Your Saint Elmo's Fire of sentiments.
Such sensation is my winterizing red onion.
The red onion of sensations.

How can I abhor you if you tootsee-roll over my heart?
My abhorrence is discombobulated by your inevitable global warming.
Your inevitable global warming of winterizing sentiments.

Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis.

This injudiciously superfluous course
of anthropomorphism.
I would scour your possums if it meant
I could see your nostrils of euphoria.

Such vehemence.
Such melancholy.
How I anthropomorphize for your nostrils of euphoria.

Flibbertigibbet.

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Ignorance Was So Much Bliss, Thanks.

There will be tears.
I've no doubt.
There will be smiles, but a few.
And when the tears have run out, we'll be numb and blue.

I can't be there with you, but I can dream.
I can't be there with you, but I can dream.
I can't be there with you, but I can dream.
I can't be there with you, but I can dream.

I still dream,
dream,
dream.

-There Will Be Tears, Mr. Hudson.