The year is 1983.
The anthem of stalkers everywhere.
Oh, Sting. Be still my beating heart.
Number one novel on the NYT's list in February was Mistral's Daughter by Judith Krantz.
Catch phrases of the time were:
Bite me (which I still say)
What's crackalackin? (Which I don't)
I kid you not. (No, really)
I was a mere babe. But I did pen this truly horrible poem that I thought I would share with you, original spelling included.
Spring
The fires of spring are calling,
ever so softly, to me.
Bekoning with the ghostly hands
of love and happiness.
Wanting to draw me near
but yet I resist.
Why?
It is so bad...I don't want to stand too close. Yes, I was deep...and a little creepy.
There is also a strange tribute to Hall and Oats scrawled next to this entry in my journal. In case you don't remember them:
It was all about the hair.
My thanks to Laura of Lisa and Laura Write for inspiring the sharing of my poem. If not for her courage in sharing her own teenage pain, I may never have found the strength to share mine.
Best year of all! Because I finally made my grand entry into the world!!! :D (And I do still say what's crackalackin'... I'm trying to bring it back.)
ReplyDeleteOMG, Valerie. You were born that year??? You are just a baby! If you want I can start saying crackalackin' too. Just to be supportive.lol
ReplyDeleteGreat song. And what's wrong with the poem? Looks good to me. We're always the hardest on ourselves.
ReplyDeleteMarsha,
ReplyDeleteLet's see 1983...I was about 4 years old. LOL
Damn, Bite me's been around a while. Thanks for the flashback!
ReplyDelete