Seeping into my netherworld
anno domini nineteen ninety six
with all the world my stage
many boxes but no ticks
There or maybe thereabouts
second hand news and hearsay
drifting out of my tragicomedy
knowing not where her hat lay
On any given grey day
retail parks can be soulless
fate's hand deceives and conceives
a chance meeting nevertheless
Social media's platform of insight
who knew our nascent dreams?
when paths cross and stars align
kindred spirits share consciousness streams
A rock when in a hard place
a friend who's paid her dues
a pleasure to know and admire
enshrined now as a muse
Almost every day of my life is like a script.
Some of it is written, and some is improv.
For example, I wake up at 6 and I'm ready by 6:45. Those are the written parts. I run over it day after day and it never changes. It takes me a minute and thirty two seconds to brush my teeth and there are 24 steps between my bedroom and my bathroom. There are 76 tiles from my first hour class, to the nearest bathroom. I wash my hands when I get home from school. Most times more than twice.
It's a script.
And then there's the improv; the conversation throughout the day. Someone says hello and I think about 11 different ways I could respond. I run each one through my head so many times that they all seem like stupid things to say. You'd think after doing this every day that I'd figure out and know which phrase works the best, but that's not how it works.
None of them feel right.
I feel the need to redo it.
It's been ten minutes since I've washed my hands and the more I think about it, the more I obsess over it, the louder my body screams. My stomach hurts, I'm sweating.
I can feel the germs crawling under my skin, infecting my blood and making me ill.
My heart is racing and my head hurts.
I have to. I can't wait any longer.
When the water hits my hands, I can almost breathe again. I grow calmer as I scrub my hands, over and over again, pumping more soap into my palms ever so often. I am okay.
I am okay.
She whips me down
And drags me round
She roars like thunder
And my freedom is plunder
She spits and seethes
And still nothing pleases
And so I’ll leave
For she will not relieve
The torrid strain I am under
In this oh so monstrous dismal blunder
I’ll succumb to a sweet sleep
And I know you won’t weep
As I end my stay
Besides, who could dismay?
I now know nothing is promised.
Life isn't promised.
I know I am tired.
I know I am sick.
Everything was once a lot brighter.
I worried about normal teenager things.
I worried about what I was gonna do when I grew up.
I worried about what was in front of me.
Now I'm worried about now.
Worried if I'm going to make it to when I grow up.
I'm in constant pain.
My lungs disagree with being lungs.
And a bunch of other things too...
Mommy is acting different.
She's scared too.
Her baby girl is sick.
And who knows it might not be fixable.
In a perfect world people wouldn't get sick...
But the sad reality is we do not live in a perfect world.
You were a statement,
a brick wall,
covered in small pieces of graffiti,
lost in a noisy city.
So you changed.
You tore yourself down,
giving away pieces
to anyone who would take them
destroying the subtle art.
I had to leave,
unable to stand the gravel
of you at my feet,
like a part of me
was in that rubble.
They all noticed you then
a small glimpse from the corner
of their eyes,
no one pays attention
to a neon jumble.
When I came back
you had lost all but three
spray painted pieces,
no matter how much I tried
I couldn't recreate you
Nothing will live
in the broken space
you once occupied completely,
so I walked away for good
You are not salvageable.
Don't blame a blind for not seeing,
as it was not his fault to be born without sight.
Help him reach the destination, be his sun,
lead him patiently to the place he heads to.
How confident you are, and how long you'll feed
your confidence that eyes are given you forever?
wouldn't you expect a good man's hand,
when you yourself were blind? Have you ever thought
about what if you become one one day
and no one will rush to show you the way?
Don't blame the eye-holed man for not seeing, as you never know
what fate or accident has got for you in stock.
How sweet and saving-life would be, if when you lost your sight,
someone came and help you actually?
And even if no one came to guide you, would it be less bitter to die
thinking "I helped the one who shared the same fate",
than moaning: "Shame on me, for blind was he
and I didn't move a finger, I left him to his darkness and himself"?
If you helped, and if there was a God, and Judgment Day ahead,
wouldn't it be a happy for you day?
But even in case there was no prize awaiting you for being nice,
for a will to care - then thankful smile he always spared,
wide smile upon the unfortunate's sightless face,
would't be the nicest, the biggest prize itself?
I’m still a child.
I’m still five, and the memory of splashing in the despairing rain with my green raincoat and Dad is not a lifelong treasured memory; it was just Dad trying to occupy my yesterday when the rain wouldn’t let up.
I’m still seven, and we had to put Oscar down last night. He was my first best friend with a thousand untold secrets and a million shedding hairs. I don’t understand what being put to sleep means.
I’m still nine, and my best friend and I decide to start a dog walking business. We constantly complain because we are too young to get any serious customers who didn’t patronize us. We can’t wait until we’re older.
I’m still eleven, and my brother and I are learning to surf. We have a constant rivalry, despite us both being as unbalanced as two upright sloths on a hamster wheel.
I’m still twelve, and we talk about what we’ll do when we finish school. We decide that we’ll go to Borneo together, and then come back home and study to become vets, my best friend and me. We can’t wait to finish school.
I’m still thirteen, and my first crush told my best friend he likes her. He asks me for help in asking her out. I help; she doesn’t know I like him. She says yes.
I’m still fourteen, and I’ve left my best friend and moved away. A new school, new city, new life, and it terrifies me.
I’m still fifteen, and this time it’s my turn. My first date, first kiss, first boyfriend. It’s a new world for me.
I’m still fifteen, and it’s my first heartbreak. He left; my second dog was put down; Pa was diagnosed with Leukemia. Three heartbreaks rolled into one.
But I’m sixteen now. I’m not a child. I can drive and have sex, I can travel without permission, I’m trusted to deal with peer pressure and drugs and alcohol. This isn’t child’s play anymore.
I’m not sixteen. I’m still a child.
Where did it all go? Why did I want to grow up?
I don’t want to grow up.
the god and his disciples
standing on oddly shaped soap boxes
and preach in a foreign language
in which the only answer
the day that i see
numbers as anything but
as anything but
will be the day
that i don't know
my own mind
the teacher has that smile on,
that smile you see before you die.
curled up like a parabola
full of right triangle teeth
that i don't want to solve.
i wonder if i measured
the angle at which my eyes
are cocked upward
that i might intimidate him with
what little resolve i have,
he might send me on my way
with a decent grade
and a shred of dignity.
Gasping for air,
Trying to grab ahold
Crying out in pain,
Trying to call out
Screaming at the world,
Trying to make them
Going silent once more,
No once cares enough