Dig Up All the Adolescent Angst You Can Muster for World Poetry Day, Please

I don't usually look this smart and refined when I'm writing, but I do bite my pens. 

Today is World Poetry Day, which I didn't know until right this very second.

I wish I could impress you with my spontaneous stanza skillz, regale you with my mastery of trochees, anapests, and dactylic hexameters (Wikipedia, you've earned your keep and can go home now), but I'm not feeling incredibly poetic.

Instead, I've had this little synapse explosion from my teenage self in my head lately. I purged a bunch of dresser drawers recently and discovered some high school scribblings and scrawlings. I encounter these every few years when I go through my PILES OF CRAP (which definitely deserve the all-caps treatment, and could probably use a more disheveled font as well).

Inside my Year 15 volume, I unearthed this:

When I lose my grip
God is in the dip
When I sing the blues
God is in my shoes

Sometimes when you read stuff you wrote years ago, you experience that heady time warp that transports you back to a particular place and time. You can remember exactly how you were feeling, what the wood paneling in your bedroom smelled like (er, wood paneling does have a smell, right?), what/who inspired you to write "I FUCKING HATE YOU DAD!!!" haiku (sorry, Dad — bygones). Other times it feels like you're eavesdropping on a stranger.

This untitled poem is some kind of warped amalgam: I actually remember writing it, but I couldn't tell you now what I was feeling or what I meant by it. God is everywhere? God is nowhere? I just gorged on clam dip? Huh.

Happy World Poetry Day.