Old Poem, Age 8

I wish I could be like the leaves
And simply blow away,
For then I wouldn’t have to go
To school again today.

The teacher always yells at me,
And says I do things wrong —
I think I’ve got a complex, or
I will have, before long.

I wish it was still summer, so
We could go to the pool;
Instead we go to gym class,
Then our local lunchroom gruel.

The leaves go where they want, while I’m
In math, for heaven’s sake —
But I at least know how to count
The days

Til Christmas


Old Poem, Written Age 22

[I edited this pretty heavily, but tried to leave the original emotions intact. – Owen]

It’s lonely on the beach tonight,
Just me and one lone bird;
The love I thought would never leave
Has left without a word

The waves still sing their lullaby,
But I just cannot rest;
It’s hard to think you’re good
When someone else is always best

I see the lights far down the shore
The party’s over there;
I don’t belong, I never did,
But I don’t really care

I left my shoes back in the car
So I could feel the waves;
I wish, like some adventure book,
I could explore some caves

Or go back in my mind to when
I still could be a hero,
But life is no adventure book
And I am just a zero

A nobody, in no one’s tale;
That all is past my reach —
I’m just a lonely traveler
Who’s meant to prowl the beach

I wish that I could build a world
Out of my fantasy;
It’s strange I wish she was still here,
Though she does not want me

I guess I’d better get on back,
I’ve walked for mile on mile;
And I have got to be at work
In just a little while

I need some caffeine pretty quick
So I seem on the ball;
And go through all the motions
That I’m anyone
At all

Old Poem, Written Age Yesterday

No matter how I try …

No matter how I try, I can’t

Escape from being me;

I struggle for perspective

And some objectivity


To see the world the way it is,

I ’round the globe am led —

But all the time, I’m trapped within

The confines of

My head

Old Poem, Written Age 28

Edited heavily, as per usual

It’s crazy, really, but still true:
I would do anything
To be with you

You are already here, I know:
But still, I need to prove
That this is so —

With gifts and time and everything:
With paintings that I paint
And songs I sing

It’s crazy, really, way too much —
That you should be so close that we
Can touch

The years I thought I’d left behind
Have torn my heart, and broken up
My mind

But if I could, I’d give you more –
What’s that?
Too much?
No, please don’t use that


Old Poem, Written Age 17 (Unedited)

Ugh. Well, I wrote it.

I can’t believe I’m here, and that you’re here.

You’re far too beautiful for me, I fear —

You radiance — it melts my very heart;

Which starts to freeze whenever we’re apart.


I’ll never, ever, ever show you this:

The way I felt enslaved with just one kiss.

The way I want to touch you, every day —

I never knew that I could feel this way.


But this all just sounds desperate, I know —

And so, these words are ones I’ll never show.

I’ll wait a while before next time I call —

And hope you never see how bad I fall.

Old Poem, Written Age 18

Written in a high school yearbook

[I wrote this in a friend’s yearbook; with some editing, it is herein changed now into a poem. – Owen]

About these years we spent together…

I’m sorry about throwing rocks
At your window 5am on a Saturday,
Particularly when I found out
You lived next door…

I’m glad we got to go
To Disneyworld together,
If for no other reason than
Just to hear you call
The Hall of Presidents
“A bunch of dummies”…

I’ll miss catching you
Staring off into space in
The library; thinking
Some boy had broken your heart,
But finding out that you
Were “still depressed
About the Lakers – 76ers series”…

We’ve known each other since
Fifth grade, and I believe
You can go anywhere,
Do anything, and
Be anyone you want;
But, wherever you go,
Let me know, so
I’m not out there at 5am,
Throwing rocks at
The wrong house

— Owen

Old Poem, Written Age 17 (Unedited)

Not editing is the hardest thing in the world for me. Except for maybe editing.

If you saw you the same way I see you,
You’d never doubt that you could touch the farthest stars.

For here, by the moonlit waters, I tell you
The ocean waves only move, in hopes of touching you.
But you will never know me, hear me, or touch me.

For poets write of the love they feel,
While dancers, football players, and rock stars
Actually get to experience being loved.

If I saw me the same way you see me,
I’d realize that I don’t really exist.