A Twister, Spiral, and Dirt Devil of Rants

How about another true statement: Being sixteen and of America is being heartbroken for the sake of being heartbroken.
Cross that out-- being sixteen and of sixteen is being heartbroken for the sake of being heartbroken.
About fellow peers
about things we can't save
about dreams we can't have
about plays we can't write
about people we can't stop thinking about
and about ticks we can't stop, clocks we can't twitch
and moments we can't freeze

We're all pretty generally confused. I don't think it ever gets any better.

I tell myself sometimes, that things are really just like Slaughterhouse Five: just moments in time that we can reverse and jump and hop into whenever we feel the need to find them again, stumble upon the newness and crisp reality of them the first time around.

I had a the worst dream I've had in a long time last night.
I'm on death row, and I don't know why... I keep asking people over and over again why I'm there and no one will tell me. The guards of the prison inform us all that they are executing us all on the same day; to line up and just wait. Thousands of us, millions of us get in a single file line and wait. They move the person before you in quick and fast, then dump them back out before the lethal injection sets in completely. I see my friends crawling out of a room half dead and half alive. I keep moving in line trying to figure out why I was there, what I had done that was so wrong. And then I get on ominous phone call from someone from the past. They are about to go into the room to die, and we've been locked in the same prison for years without even knowing it. He tells me he will always love me, and then hangs up. I'm left asking other people if they care that I did nothing wrong to get in this position and I'm answered with dead stares... then I wake up.

I talk to a friend about it and she tells me I'm in T.S. Eliot's Unreal City. I think I need a dream interpertation book.

A list of words I come up with when trying to write a poem:
drowing
plump greedy babies
eating everything
snakes
going underwater
the way a pen's ink smells when it has just finished writing something
botchulism
state
freedom from land
part-man, part-water
sparkplugs
recognize
playing poker with international men
bucket full of changes (ivegotthemivegotthem)
nuances
its easy to fall in love here
book with softly turned pages
I'm only good at being young.
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I'm fascinated by tornados. I don't understand them,their cycles, their eyes, the way they work.
I never see the destruction behind them, just the clear ground before. I don't see their threat, just turns, like a ballerina with dust sprialing at her feet.

Being sixteen and of America is being like a natural disaster-- fascinating and selfish, a tornado with no direct path.