I want

         many things, and I suppose

you could call me selfish for that

         (in retaliation, I suppose

                  I could call you a communist)

 

Still, it won’t change the fact that I like

         the smell of coffee but not the taste.

Unless it’s sugar-coated

         (much like life,

                  I suppose)

 

Or that I like broderie anglaise

         and philosophical debates

haircuts and Jodie Foster movies

opera, paper cranes

         and selected school lessons.

 

Certainly

         there are other things I would appreciate

world peace and such

         but like you said, I’m selfish

 

and more preoccupied with

         my own daily worries.

That they opened another Supré

and tried to make me read John Marsden

and that I have been invaded

by real estate agents

who hang up my dressing gown

         and call me ‘dear’.

 

*this is a mega cheat – I wrote this poem when I was SIXTEEN. But I’ve had a long day (Armageddon, Auckland’s answer to Comicon) and for some reason decided it would be a good idea to go through ALL of various files marked ‘WRITING’, dating back to 2006, in some cases. It’s long and laborious, and I’m only partway through, but it’s been quite enlightening finding all this stuff of yesteryear. I still quite liked this poem, and TBH, I’m not sure if my style has evolved that much, which I don’t know if it means I was a very mature sixteen year old, or I’m an extremely immature/stagnant twenty-three year old. Either way. It was part of my poetry-prize winning portfolio in Year 12 (beating out all the Year 13s, I might add), so it can’t have been too terrible… can it?