Biography of valerie jaeger
i'm just a high-school senior. nothing special. not an aspiring poet or anything; i've just always loved writing. even though i don't plan on making anything of it, it would be a shame to let my writing skills (be they modest at best) get all rusty while i pursue my one true love: art. i do have my 'paper cup' poem published in an anthology called 'stories of life, ' however. either way, if you want to read some poems other than mine, check out james grengs. thank you to anyone and everyone who reads my poems, and an extraspecial uber-thanks to those who actually rate them. remember: teenagers need voting-lovin' too!
valerie jaeger Poems
The Sucky Poem Dedicated To My Goth Side
don't be afraid, baby just slip out of your skin wander in enjoy the air on your bones;
a name is written here upon my heart. it burned this melting fiery path that descended
for the darkness, i have dedicated hours, destroyed the minute hand and banished sense entirely.
The Dom Writes A Letter To Her Slave
you are what i tell you to be. i and i alone give you your identity;
i read in the newspaper about a young woman raped by an aquaintance; she decided not to press charges,
Settled in the rift between two people, she hears them asleep in Life;
Rather Than Waking
i love you always(all ways.) every time i pick my fragile body from beneath the feather weight of the blankets,
if i stand beside you, look into your darkened eyes, i can almost see a world
if i stand beside you, look into your eyes, i can almost see a world;
On Love, Or Whatever You Call It
Other poets express it best in rhyme i would not hope to imitate. THEIR words could pierce that icy heart far better than i could.
they say nothing can live in the frost-bound coldness of december, but here, unfolding despite this bitter air:
This Is Where We Used To Live
no i will not drink better water, i like the noise of the pipes just fine; i like the sound of bare feet in the morning, of
i am a blackness. freedom. inside this gray soul an iron heart, not
they say nothing can live
in the frost-bound coldness
of december, but here,
unfolding despite this bitter air:
the fresh feel
of warm hands under mine.
the glass-edged leaves
beneath our feet melt into
liquid leather softness,
of what grows here