Because you were sixteen years old, too
Craigslist needs your bad poems. Craigslist needs your “Why doesn’t the quarterback/head cheerleader/quarterback and head cheerleader know my name?” poems. Your “love” rhymes with “dove” poems. Your “my anger is like a…” poems.
If you didn’t burn them or bury them in a chest on the beach, then bury the map to the chest on another part of the beach, may they find a home where the awkward turtle swims.