Jaylin was scared and detrimental -
with runaway scars,
his heavy breathing,
and the wolves chasing such a forgotten soul.
"I'm more afraid of death then before,
more afraid of the teeth ripping through my skull,
I have to end this dream.",
He said screaming, knowing it was but of no dream.
Is the end just above the harassing, or still just a mere speck waiting to be seen.
he screamed again, as the snow touched his face
- wishing his fellow friends could hear.
the mindless memories all over his body warned him.
It warned him he was still wanted by them.
Still yearned by the ones of which owned the forest.
"Jaylin, run! Run now!"
this wasn't his mind, but the mysteries' wind that ran next to him.
He heard it, but didn't know what it said until he saw them -
barking, running and almost screaming.
Jaylin stopped to listen to this screaming,
as if the screaming was the sound of a thousand ghosts that the Wolves killed.
Hearing all this he knew he wasn't the first.
"How could the wind know?,
Why are there some many voices in my head!?,
I don't want to be trapped like the other lost and forgotten souls!,
I don't want to be screaming in endless time of death !",
what was wished for was soon put away in the hollow sound of the universe.
they found him.
and the taste of death
where all things felt when Jaylin was bitten.
Bitten by The Wolves.
Oh, how I pity my poor pessimist
Do you not mind what I scribe?
Does curiosity never approach you
When I know you can't sleep at night
If you do, I hope you discover
That I write simply- you & I.
With my being beyond the horizon
In these words you must rely
A carpenters daughter,
(It's true) I was never taught, how to fix the lonely
But I assure you dear
You won't be in the slightest disappointed
My entire life is an intricate patchwork
Of multiple afflictions
Through hotel rooms & glamour
Abuse & drug addiction
"Through bathrooms & ballrooms
On dumpsters & heirlooms"
Baby, we'll be fine
I know in my minds eye
We'll be fine
As for the sea
I feel the vibrato,
A ripple when you're lonely
But the tides will greet you, excited at the pier
To bring you back home to me
I long only to bury my tear-stained face
In the man too far to say he's home
I do not choose the life I live but it's the only one I can call my own.
You will wake in bliss
Between ruffled sheets
And my petite, contented figure
The pessimist will embody nothing
But the purest form of happiness
Be careful sharing your heart with me.
I fall in love with those who open up.
Like a levee breaking
my love with flood in to your heart.
It will be beautiful and it will be fierce
and the currents will be of a Biblical magnitude.
So please be careful;
you're far too pretty to hurt.
Writing always is going to resonate with me the most,
much more than speaking ever could.
I can’t pinpoint the exact moment when I had that invaluable epiphany,
but I think it was just something I knew my whole life,
and then just one day I finally realized it.
In school, while everyone else always struggled to come up
with the minimum requirement for essays,
I would have to spend hours upon hours compressing all my thoughts
and succumb to the standards of my rubric.
Instead of a chore,
I saw as it as an opportunity- or more like a challenge.
I always thought it was strange of teachers to want to limit my thoughts,
at least that’s how I thought of it when I was in middle school.
Now I understand more of the purpose of putting a limit on words,
for the sake of “quality over quantity”.
However, I always felt the need to over explain and elaborate
for fear that I might not get my point across.
Several times it felt as if my thoughts and emotions that I had
so tightly contained inside my brain for days upon end
seemed to magically transfer from my mind to the tips
of my fingers and pen and then finally to my paper.
I can’t recall the first time I picked up a pencil and started writing to convey my thoughts,
but ever since then,
it was the only way I truly could.
I didn’t ever realize that I was different,
or that something was considered ‘wrong’ with me,
until I first started school.
I was immediately subject to a series
of different tests and analyses trying to
I had had a speech impediment my whole life,
nothing extremely inhibiting or problematic,
but something that set me apart from the other kids.
I was unable to pronounce a number of syllables,
which sometimes made me sound very inarticulate.
I was always very quiet,
and sort of an outcast,
and everyone pondered whether I was shy because of my speech problem,
or whether I had developed a speech problem because I was so shy and
unable to communicate properly.
My school unfortunately connected my disability to special learning needs,
but I soon proved them wrong.
After having to go through a series of tests,
they realized that I was actually very intelligent for my age,
but my speech problem hindered me from always being able to express myself
or be confident enough to share my ideas in class.
No one understood that being quiet,
or “not being able to talk” wasn’t a choice for me,
the thought of putting myself out there and being able to interact and communicate with other kids my age honestly made me cringe.
I guess writing just came most naturally to me- it was just a skill.
Honestly, sometimes I would rather reside in my stories than in the real world.
Whenever I'd complete an assignment for school,
I would smile,
and laugh at the irony of how this unappealing,
cut and dry packet
was the actual representation of all the unpredictable and imaginative workings of my mind.
That’s what writing allowed me to do: it allowed me to take all of the
words and thoughts
that were constantly buzzing around in my head and
let them free.
That is how writing helped me;
it helped me say things that I never could have in person.
Days turn to weeks,
and months into years;
Our calendar filled,
With days that bring tears.
No longer with cheer,
There’s a birthday we keep;
A life sewn in hardship,
Is now reaping grief.
His anniversary of leaving,
A dark smear on that day;
Its nothing to celebrate,
But it won't wash away.
Those days that we’re honored,
As his mother and father;
Special cards that he made us,
We receive them no longer.
A day for memorials,
Then picnics and parades,
The summer he loved,
A special hike on Labor Day.
The season to give thanks,
Forces us to remember,
All the years that we did have,
All those happy Novembers.
Finally Christmas comes round,
Full of time spent together;
All our family traditions,
Where he's missed more than ever.
Each day a reminder,
Every memory so dear,
Yet silence speaks loudly,
When laughter disappears.
Then it's time to repeat,
Time to turn a new page,
Time for new resolutions,
Time to hope for some change.
Maybe this is the year,
That the calendar’s our friend,
When peace is returned,
And we look forward again.
this was written in late December 2012, just a year ago as part of my struggle to come to terms with life’s curves. i post this tonight, not so much for me, though my struggle is hardly over... this is more for a dear soul; an HP friend who like me, is still struggling with loss. some days are just harder than others; then there are whole seasons that will never again be the same. tonight, i raise a glass of Merlot for her, not in toast, but in wishing her comfort, peace and rest!
I met a girl
Her smile captivated
in the blink of an eye.
The way be strung
and told people
everything will be okay
made them think that
everything really was
going to be okay,
as long as she was
by their side
I met a girl
Who's eyes didn't shine
as bright as they used to.
Her smile faded quickly
after every dry chuckle
and her thoughts began
to seem darker,
as if demons had
her soul in a heartbeat.
I met a girl
Who hid pain
behind long sleeves;
in oceans of red.
She has set sail
on a journey
to find hope
but returned instantly
I met a girl
Who had been called
From ugly to worthless.
Shouting these names
hoping for reassurance
from the broken girl
in the mirror but got
nothing in return;
an honest nod.
I met a girl
That no one else
could ever meet
that girl is me;
And I lay 6ft underground.