Teenage Poem Novels & Stories

“We’re teenagers now. Young, carefree, without a worry in the world. Let’s live like that, just for a few hours.” In the blink of an eye, the two found themselves at seventeen again, youthful energy coursing through their veins. The world around them took on a golden hue, infused with the magic of their transformed age. Adam’s gaze remained cool and dignified, yet his chubby cheeks added a touch of boyish charm. Althea, with her adorable bunny teeth and signature ponytail, radiated the warmth and vibrance of youth. “Now,” Althea said, taking Adam’s hand, her eyes twinkling, “let’s make the most of this moment. We’re seventeen again!”

But desperation feels my inside, Desperate for a hand to lead me to a new world. A world that is like a ballroom, One just like in Disney, With fairy tale ending. I will dance my sorrows out, And let the cool evening breeze sing to me. I will dance and call happiness. Juliet Ivie. I wrote what I felt like doing and again this teacher gets me,she said she really loves my poem. I couldn't hide my shy smile,I really like this new teacher. The day that girl died in school,I saw that she was sad,and I was sad too. The day Lance fought for her, I was happy,I instantly liked Lance. I don't know why I like her so much,do people just like someone like this?

Sometimes, I driven by my own fear—unlocking everything away from what I should supposed to do, but I think fear will always exist in our minds and may ruin what we have. I suddenly remember that one book I read online few months ago. It’s a book that talks about the life of a high school girl who seeks thrilling experiences and confessing to her crush is the shameful guts she had in her life yet also the best one. She always sends him poems and I really like how her poems describes the man and her love for that man. “I think I saved few poems right here.” I murmured to myself, feeling the need to read I once again.

After dinner, we’d cuddle up around the fire and they would tell us stories about the great alphas and the way our current society came to be. I could never have guessed that I would barely get sixteen years of that happiness. Tia and I had been in the garden, planning a prank for our parents’ 20th-anniversary party that night. Something about a terrible poem our Dad had written when he was eighteen. It was supposed to be sweet and funny. Everyone was supposed to laugh and tease Dad. Dad was supposed to scowl a bit at our mischief, but Mom would have only fallen deeper in love and demanded to keep the terrible poem for posterity.

Leah opened it. The page was filled with jagged lines, crossed-out words, fragments of sentences. But it was there. A beginning. Leah read it slowly. It was a poem. About a girl who lived in a house full of silence. About a mango tree that listened better than people. About a voice that was afraid to be loud. Leah looked up. “It’s beautiful,” she said. Tala shrugged. “It’s not finished.” Leah smiled. “Neither are you.” Tala began attending every session.

Joe stuttered with tears from his eyes as he recalled one of his previous ex's words. “You are too immature” she said after giving him a hot slap on the cheek. That was at age thirty-three, now he was more of an old man than a middle age for he is fifty years old. Joe stood up on his feet after realizing how many pains he might have caused Imelda, he fastened his shoes on and set to return home, his attention suddenly attracts to a scene where a teenager shouted. The teenager fell from a canoe into the big sea. “There's no way he'd survive the wave” a lady commented as people drew near to the scene.

There are only three words for what we are: Young. Wild. Free. Snoop and wiz khalifa said it all. I get the feeling that this is what being a teenager should be like. That songs were made to be sang out loud, with lungs fresh from Heaven's factory. Life—to be experienced in an uncontrollable atomic fashion constituted by bursts of unbridle-able energy. The air—to be inhaled without thought or obligations or responsibilities; released, unshackled, worry-less, unchained—free.

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Nice in a way. Embarrassment almost always overcame Peter as he stood before the group. I’m a joke to them because I’m only eighteen. On his last visit, the head mentor urged him to write something real. This time, Peter felt he’d done just that. Up to now, his poems concerned girls, echoing the rhythmic timing of pop ballads. Peter wrote to calm himself, and he found he needed calming after his mother finished with him. She was furious that he was missing another Sunday sermon, and as such, refused to drive him. And so, the pen scratched hard and fast that morning, words spilling onto the page. He felt better afterwards, a little less like punching someone.

My first poem was written at the age of 8 when I was just a girl who wanted to be loved the way she was in the falls of September 11,2004. I ended with tears in my eyes. My invisible pain was just like the one I witnessed back then on the 29th of November 2006. I remember vividly that fateful day when I entered their home. A breeze of cold air brushed across my skin as the smell of fresh food got trapped in my nostril but all I wanted was to be back in my mom's arms. I walked to the room I was directed to ,picked up a book from my bedside and went forward to ask their son who was now my brother for a pencil.