The Concert

I went to the We The Kings concert for Halloween. I could barely move. The crowd had me trapped to the point my nose rubbed boobs and my hand brushed bums. You may brutally judge me, but I will full-heartedly admit that I loved every moment of the concert. I loved the way my ears were ringing. I loved the awkward moments with the boy on my right. And all the sudden I was 19 again and I was going to all the concerts again, being a “wanna-be” punk, and thinking I was really cool. And I was thinking about “that boy” again – the one with the white stripe in his hair.He was the ultimate “punk.” I imagined our studded-bracelet-and-dyed-black-hair-lives would mesh into the so-called wild lifestyle that would keep me close enough to the edge but still within the terms of righteousness – ya know, exactly how romance goes! I had this temporary stage of what I considered rebellion. I was a punk, and a brat (I can definitely still be a brat), and I used a lot of four-letter words. Thus, I was the ultimate rebel! ;) Anyhow…

I know Halloween has passed. Mostly, I wanted to share my poem.

White Stripes

There I was again in my pink tights

My tattoo along the curve of my neck

They inked “bad girl” on my skin

The sweat was neither sweet nor salty

The crowd smelled of painted faces

We shook our fists into the spotted lights

An orange haired boy held the mike tightly

He sang to the jumping reckless fans

And the air shifted with the rising emotion

As I glanced at my friend my eyes blurred

Random elbows clipped my nose ring

The sting brought pleasant laughter

And I laughed while the orange haired boy sang

I wanted to know that boy

He tugged at my lagging control

He left me completely vulnerable

I like your hair

Colored it to mine

We can know this song

The rocking bodies are asking your name

They pass around the lyrics in matchless tones

That boy is writing a note in my mind

I am wandering back to where you sat

I am remembering the next scene

I am listening as you open the door

I am reading your handwritten stories

I am saying this was exactly right

I am guessing your next hidden look

I am lingering under the streetlight

And as always I am holding out for you