Yes poetry. I don't like poetry but yes to this:
...even when
the words grace me with their presence,
they don't always choose to step
delicately into the world, pink shoes
treading softly over the white horizon.
usually poetry slops lazily over the couch
of a page and dangles while I remove its muddy
shoes and rearrange the pillows, all the while
muttering something about Frost and how maybe
his comments against free verse were right
all along (poetry in rhyme always cleans up
after itself) although honestly, you haven't lived
until the homeless free-verse poem on your couch
decides to stay for a cup of tea and, if you're
lucky, lets you take notes on everything he says.
from "invitation" by Mackenzie Connellee, in Time You Let Me In
There's a sh!t-ton more of that where this comes from - meditations on the last photons from a dying star, the burning feeling of hiding and making out, joyrides and wine coolers, fitting in, learning, rebelling, parents, grandparents, and oh my god breathless love.
Here's another little bit:
as far back as I can remember
we've been pissed off,
the whole bloodline, just really pissed.
from "as far back as I can remember" by Jonah Ogles, in Time You Let Me In
If you could say "Good job!" in that delighted voice with that big smile you give a two-year-old who drew you a picture to a teenage or just-past-teenage poet (which you can't, not unless you want to hideously damage him or her), I would say "Good job!" to Lauren Eriks, who wrote:
I have bed knobs in my hands, portals,
doorways. I can leap over
buildings, baby, bouncing
through walls. I'm free as a
racing rubber ball. When I get lit
on the trail of your Camel cigarette,
you know I can break
every bottle, butt, bombshell around.
from "La Belle Dame Sans Merci" by Lauren Eriks, in Time You Let Me In.