I cannot contain my innocence,
I am guilty with the loss of my sense.
I apologise for not even trying to be better,
my flaws make me anything but greater.
And in all of the wretched and shallow promises,
I do nothing but work with my devices;
tears, pain... physical pain.
Who am I to try to be someone special,
I dont belong among the celestial.
I cannot and I wont bend low,
for graces aren't mine to bestow.
How else can't I control my emotion,
my heart, really, just my mind's distraction.
I can stay now and be your brother and I'll always choose just to be that.
Nothing more nothing less, all my hurt I'll keep in that hat;
a constant mask, a facade and a charade,
a purulent form of my hiding place
and only in hopes to bridge the distance.
Forgive me, embrace me in a hug.
You're like family, a picture worthy of printing on a mug.
I love you and I know I hurt you,
but allow me to once again be true.
You have your mercy, I'll hold on to my grace,
you stay ahead and I'll keep my pace.
Maybe when I find myself again in your disappointment.
I'll have a chance at my atonement.
Allow me to always be the one to take over all your problems,
Or, if I cannot solve all your problems,
Allow me to stand next to you and fight in an armored battle as well,
However, if I cannot follow you into battle,
Allow me to watch and support you from the sidelines,
But, if I cannot be there to watch from the sidelines,
Allow me to be the one that you call to exclaim,
How ecstatic you are that you made it through the battle and back where you belong,
Stronger, wiser and more aware of what you want than before.
Poem thief can have my poems if it means you continue to share pieces of you.
Joined this site to get to know you and will not stay here if you go away.
Not into twitter or myspace but will join to be near you and hope you don't mind.
I pray you allow me to be part of your crowd on your private Facebook.
You inspired me to write poetry and to get better at what's difficult for me.
I don't smoke cigarettes to calm my nerves or drink booze to numb a man's pain.
Admitting I'm a grown ass man reading your leaving comments and about to cry.
You affect more lives than you realize Betty Ponder and I glad you shared about you.
The one who steals poems can steal this one too it will mean more will know my feelings.
Glad that I got to read the pieces of you that you cared to share.
I posed a how do you know question to my parents about knowing if it's love.
Answer was when a person leaves your life and it makes you feel like
you can't breath and you get extremely sad when they leave and you want to
swallow your pride and get down on your hands and knees and beg them not to go.
I'm sad thinking you are leaving and I wont get to read pieces of you but still
got butterflies in my stomach thinking of you and want to beg you not to go.
Public Prosecutor v Blaise B.
 3 SLR 69
Suit No: CC No 666/2013
Decision Date: 12 December 2013
Court: Court of Appeals
Coram: B. K. Beaudoir J
Counsel: G. Bozo for the Prosecution, Renagaresh Bhulimio S.C. for the Accused
Criminal Law - Offences - Murder - Defence of grave and sudden provocation - Two requirements for defence - Subjective requirement that accused deprived of self-control by provocation - Objective requirement that 'grave and sudden' provocation exists based on 'reasonable man' test
Criminal Law - Offences - Murder - Defence of grave and sudden provocation - Applying the 'reasonable man' test - Whether basis exists for interfering with trial judge's decision that provocation grave and sudden - s 300 Exception 1 Penal Code (Cap 224)
1. Ms Lurveit Ima Ho, aged 25 ('D1') first came to know the Accused, Blaise B., through a personal advertisement which the Accused had posted up on a relatively popular internet website, Craigslist. Though D1 was, at all material times, living with her long-time partner Ms Clitty Li, aged 27 ('D2') in their rented apartment at Block 69 East Coast Road, Singapore ('the premises'), a wild and frenzied love affair between D1 and the Accused ensues.
2. On or about 6 January 2009, sometime between 11.30 pm and midnight, loud gunshots were heard from the apartment both D1 and D2 shared. According to an eyewitness' account, the Accused was seen stumbling out from the apartment soon after the gunshots with his pants around his knees. It was also reported that the Accused had, in his attempt to flee the scene of the crime, 'stumbled around like a headless chicken' as he made his way down the stairs.
3. D1 and D2 were both found dead in the master bedroom with multiple gunshot wounds to their bodies. There was no evidence of a struggle in the apartment. Dr Philly Shiotz, Consultant Forensic Pathologist with the Centre for Forensic Medicine, Health Sciences Authority, performed the autopsy on both D1 and D2 at about 5am the same day . Based on his findings, the cause of D1's and D2's death were certified as follows:
D1 - Acute Haemorrhage due to gunshot wound of the heart
D2 - Severe brain damage due to gunshot wound to the frontal temporal lobe
4. Police investigations led to the arrest of the Accused on Friday, 13 February 2009 and the Accused was charged as follows:
"That you, Blaise B. (aka Niggaz on Parole) on the 6th day of January 2009 between 11.30pm and 12 am, at Blk 69 East Coast Road, Singapore, did commit murder by causing the death of one Lurveit Ima Ho, f/25, and you have thereby committed an offence punishable under Section 302 of the Penal Code, Chapter 224."
"That you, Blaise B. (aka Niggaz on Parole) on the 6th day of January 2009 between 11.30pm and 12 am, at Blk 69 East Coast Road, Singapore, did commit murder by causing the death of one Clitty Li, f/27, and you have thereby committed an offence punishable under Section 302 of the Penal Code, Chapter 224.
5. It is undisputed that the Accused had, at the aforesaid premises, produced an illegal firearm and opened fire at both D1 and D2, thereby causing their untimely deaths.
The Prosecution Evidence
5. The prosecution led evidence by way of conditioned statements from 48 witnesses and oral evidence from one witness. There was little debate on the evidence presented by the prosecution and the material aspects thereof can be summarised as follows.
7. According to oral evidence of the prosecution's witness, Ms Zizi, whom we understand was recently gunned down by an unknown assailant in a public toilet situated somewhere in Geylang, the relationship between D1 and the Accused had soured sometime in November 2008. D1 had confided in Ms Zizi that the Accused was no longer able to 'satisfy' her sexual needs. Ms Zizi was further told by D1 that she had, on several occasions, caught the Accused masturbating in front of the fridge with a chicken carcass in hand. Concerned and embarrassed, D1 had confronted the Accused with advice to seek psychiatric help, to which the Accused promptly brushed aside unheeded.
8. It was only until the unusual habits of the Accused, which had by that time, deteriorated to such degree that he was seeking sexual gratification through the use of cabbage leaves, did D1 finally decided to take matters into her own hands.
9. Based on hand phone records obtained by investigating officers, the Accused was called to the apartment sometime around 10.30pm. At 11.15 pm, the Accused arrived at the scene of the crime. It is not known whether D2 was in the apartment at the time of the Accused's arrival. However, according to several eyewitnesses around neighboring blocks, D2 was seen returning to the apartment sometime about 11.30 pm.
10. The cautioned statement as well as the long statement recorded from the Accused were admitted in evidence as being voluntarily made without any objection from the Accused or his counsel. Insofar as is material, the gist of the said cautioned statement as well as the material portions of the long statement are summarised as follows:
(a) D1 had, against the will of the Accused, tethered him to the bed by way of leather straps shortly after he arrived at the apartment. According to the Accused in his statement, D1 had intended to insert a raw carrot into his anus.
(b) D1 was in the act of removing the Accused's pants when D2 stepped into the master bedroom.
(c) A heated argument ensues between D1 and D2 and the Accused, whose presence was momentarily ignored, manages to chew his way through to freedom.
(d) Greatly disturbed by what D1 had intended to do to him, the Accused took his pistol out (which was hidden in the pocket of his jacket) and opened fire, taking D1 down before proceeding to shoot D2.
The Defence Case
11. The evidence given by the Accused was brief and concise. He admitted to the killing of both D1 and D2 but pleaded not guilty to murder in reliance on the defence of provocation and diminished responsibility under Exception 1 of Section 300 of the Penal Code (Chapter 224) insofar as to attribute his loss of self-control on the failings of modern society.
12. Not only has the Accused elected to testify, he has, in the stead of his solicitors, conducted his closing submissions at the trial of this matter.
13. Though belated at this juncture, I find it pertinent to address the issue of the Accused choosing to conduct his closing submissions himself. Whether out of foolhardiness or arrogance on the part of the Accused, it is not my place to say, but it is my duty to express my concerns at such an ill-advised approach. It is rather alarming that the Accused's solicitors have failed to dissuade their client from committing such a folly, considering the gravity of the situation. Mind you, the Accused's life is hanging by a thread, and we are all aware that under the laws of Singapore, more effort is needed to pop a girl's cherry than it does to snap that thread.
14. Be that as it may, as convoluted as it was entertaining, the crux of the Accused's submissions is that his aggression had been the product of the environment he grew up in, amongst other factors and influences fuelled by the failings of modern society, and in consequence a characteristic, of which the Court should take account when assessing his loss of self-control.
15. First off, it is with utmost regret that I admit that this over-debated theory leaves much room for argument. Personally, I do not reject the idea that a person, so exposed to the depravities of his fellow beings and the gradual decline of our moralistic values, may be so conditioned in such matter that it becomes an indelible imprint on that person's character. However, I am persuaded to think that it is ultimately a personal choice to allow this debasement of ethics to be replicated by way of an deviant act.
16. If immorality, along with all other choices, is caused through hereditary and environmental means, might not the same be said for the laws that govern this land, which ultimately serve to protect the rights of its citizens. Unless proven otherwise, the laws of nature, on which our written laws have been established, are quite certainly inherent traits of all humankind. Accordingly, I am inclined to find the Accused's argument that his actions were purely a gross reflection of the unfortunate circumstances of which he had been exposed to, a weak and fallible defence. I am minded to think that the Accused was aware that what he was doing was a wrongful act, and therefore clearly mindful of the possible implications of his actions.
17. I am now invited to consider whether the provocation was sudden and grave enough to make a reasonable man act as the Accused had done so as to excuse his action.
18. As the law has developed, there are two distinct requirements for the provocation defence to apply: first, a ‘subjective’ requirement that the accused was deprived of his self-control by provocation; and secondly, an ‘objective’ requirement that the provocation should have been ‘grave and sudden’. The latter requirement involves the application of the ‘reasonable man’ test accepted in Vijayan v PP  2 MLJ 8 at p 12; [1975-1977] SLR 100 at p 107 and cited in Ithinin bin Kamari v PP  2 SLR 245 at p 250:
In our judgment, under our law, where an accused person charged with murder relies on provocation and claims the benefit of Exception 1 of s 300, the test to be applied is, would the act or acts alleged to constitute provocation have deprived a reasonable man of his self-control and induced him to do the act which caused the death of the deceased and in applying this test it is relevant to look at and compare the act of provocation with the act of retaliation.
19. Whether provocation is ‘grave and sudden’ enough to prevent an offence from amounting to murder is a question of fact, as stated in the Explanation to Exception 1 of s 300; this includes the question of whether the Accused had demonstrated the level of self-control to be expected of an ordinary person. Given the circumstances noted above, the Accused must have been in an emotional, vulnerable state of mind when he was told by D1 that she was going to 'fuck him senseless' with the carrot, which she had warmed up in the microwave oven moments before. Further, considering the fact that the Accused is a music recording artist known for his deplorable attitude towards the female sex, he would have felt emasculated by D1's actions and that would have tipped him over the edge. It is, however, most unfortunate that D2 had been present at the scene at that time. Her life could have been spared if she had not returned to the apartment when she did.
20. Therefore, the Accused is hereby convicted on a reduced charge of culpable homicide not amounting to murder.
Final Appeal for the Record (Label):
State of New York
Jefferson Washington Lincoln Carver
Aka: Blaise B/Niggaz on Parole
Docket #: 10098765
Excerpt of certified court transcript (pages 1624-1628):
Jefferson Washington Lincoln Carver addresses the court:
who value the lives of their families
beyond the mere gavel of law, I ask you:
What is innocence?
Do we not all bear the mark of Cain?
Are the sins of the ancestors not visited upon the children?
If I am not my brother’s beeper,
can’t I, at least, be his supplier.
What guilt is there in that?
Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury,
‘Twas not I who pulled the trigger.
I was at my Auntie’s playing Grand Theft Auto with my cuz.
For argument’s sake, forget my alibi.
‘Twas society. Yea, she is the nefarious villain you seek!
She is the trigger happy bitch that has brought me before you today.
I swear it upon my loins.
Nay, peeps, I swear it upon my very crotch
that hath launched a thousand quips
and knocked up that be-otch Helen
bareback on her high Trojan horse.
My childhood was not coddled with frills of Fisher-Price
nor with the dulcet tones of Baby Mozart.
My rattle was still attached to a snake.
My music was the wail of police sirens
and the staccato clap of gun fire
arising from domestic disturbances in the hood.
You see…my moms was a crack ho’.
Give me pause, good friends,
as I reflect upon her saintly semblance.
It is misted in memory
like morn beneath the Brooklyn Bridge
or Dian Fossey’s silverback gorillas
playing hide the banana.
My moms hit the pipe
like Mike McGuire hit home runs on the juice
and dragged my ass from trick to trick.
Child Services took me from her diligent care
when I was but a tot in an Armani running suit.
To what end?
I was shuffled through the foster care system,
weaned on neglect and nurtured on abuse.
Today, I wear these childhood wounds as medals.
I am not covetous of bling, but I wear it.
My desire doth not dwell on Nike Airs, I just do it.
Is it not the fashion of a man to be fashionable?
To be arrayed in the silken threads and primped with pimpish hats
Who’s pluck’d feathers would shame the Bird of Paradise
In all its plum’d puffery.
Jurors, my only sin be this…
I covet the attention I was denied as child --
I yearn for the tenderness of a mother’s caress
The slam dunk lessons of a heroic father.
Hath not my wounds given me the merit
To covet no less? If offense be taken,
I, too, shall wear that affront as an honor --
A medal from the frontlines of urban warfare.
In this naked simulacrum of Law and Order
We can no longer speak of perps’ and vics’,
For victims we are all:
Victims of Madison Avenue
Who make us crave
The shit we need not.
Victims of the media
Who elevate celebrity,
Pathetic parrots of rote,
To near divinity.
Victims of Darwinian capitalism,
That makes short-shrift of our humanity.
Victims of ‘the man’,
Yes, you crackers in the robes,
Who sat our black asses
On the back of the bus for so long
It left indelible marks
In the upholstery of our souls.
Who in this courtroom
Is not a victim?
Come forth, I pray thee!
Let them cast the first stone
And beat the soot off my weary soul.
Let him render the eye-for-an-eye justice
That leaves the world blind.
No takers? No volunteers?
That’s because, your Honor, there are no perps.
We live in a perp’less society!
God is dead and our lives are perp’less!
We are all innocent.
“Who is innocent,” I ask you.
And I answer…
All of us!
Every fucking one of us!
Yea, ‘Twas Society who pulled the trigger,
Find society guilty and by this fair construct you will be compelled to bear witness to my innocence.
I pray thee, season thy justice with mercy, for in your zeal to dispense the former, you shall make orphans of all.
In summation, a wise man once said,
‘The quality of mercy is not strain’d.”
I add, Nor can innocence be feign’d.
Behind Justitia’s blindfold it is writ:
‘We are victims all’,
Just Watchin the Clock (rap song)
For your hand I untie the laces of my corset to disclose the eternity of my mind and body on the cold cement floor. For your eyes I remove the molds which ever so carefully holds my insides in tact and allow them to flood the careful corners of our existence. For your mind I caress your knots, untie your passions and pry at your past. For your soul I allow your mouth to wander the brief and quick passages of my short exiled being.
for your heart I cut out mine own and press both thumbs on your disjointed limbs.
Severe heads and pass into the point of no return.
Whose mouth do I speak with
When my anxious thoughts multiply within me
from my heart or from somewhere deep within
Should I bridle my tongue?
Or wash it out after with soap
Or should I allow it to ride the wind
Until it lessen in time
It’s tempting: to give away my thoughts
I hate the sound of other poet’s pens
Should I freeze their ink cartridge
and spare the world the pain
from their internal and external mishaps
Should I close my eyes, and say
All's well with the world
The things we must do: not to offend
However, we have to endure many things
to conquer and to win bits at a time
“Comrade-in-arms to my old friends”
all isn’t well within our world.
Because I am a sonnet
In search of a poet
I am imaginative, forceful, and compelling
And sometimes disciplined
But today, who mouth must I speak with?
Your consolations delight my soul.
His Funeral was today. Well, his wake rather. It was in his old colonial home on Elm Street, a bought of irony that Paolo would never get. Anyway, it was an odd set up at his house. Family and friends downstairs in the living room, acquaintances and honorable mentions meandering through the hallways clearly more interested in the intricate little floral patterns that adorned the wallpaper than how his family was holding up. The company of the house was split, everyone either legitimately full of sorrow, or completely full of shit. In everyone’s grasp either handkerchiefs or hand grenades it was as if the invitation read “Come see it to believe it!” In the study across the hall a small memorial was set up. Big cards, tons of photos, some flowers, anyone who actually cared stayed there and stared at his once happy face, who knew what it looks like now.
He had died of some sort of overdose, one that destroyed his heart, so he would have looked fine in an open casket. The doctors say it was cocaine. I don’t believe them. Paolo had his fun in college, pot, booze, sure, but coke? There’s no way. The services weren’t to take place for another two hours, so his family rolled him onto the second floor balcony. It was actually his dad’s decision, something about a “disgrace” and not wanting to look at his face.
Apparently his mom had felt bad letting her dead son chill on the porch for a few hours, so she rolled him across the hallway to his own room him and kind of laid him out on the bed, as if letting her baby boy take his eternal sleep where he’d have had most of his shorter ones.
Picturing him lying up there was the first negative connotation I ever had with the image of him on that bed. He had that kind of headboard that when we started getting at it the bed would hit the wall with each rhythmic movement. Steady and almost tribal as our bodies danced to the ever increasing beat of a talking drum. Our clothes off and our skin glazed with sweat it was like my own personal method for getting high. Now don’t get the impression that our relationship was based purely on a physical connection, we’d been dating for three and a half years, the love was there all right.
We had met in the strangest of ways, through a mutual friend that I was kind of, almost, sort of, but not really having a “thing” with, you know? Cisco was his name. So we were together one day and he, being the adorable spaz that he was, had forgotten that his own birthday party was that same night. He asked if I didn’t mind tagging along, it was a celebration for him and two friends whose birthdays followed his in sequence.
This had been going on for several weeks, and I know we weren’t dating but I still had a feigning interest in the guy. So we arrive to this girl, Cristina’s, house and I noticed this other boy almost immediately. In a backwards cap and pair of boot cut jeans he was jumping around, tossing his arms, right in the middle of reciting some hilarious anecdote to any of his friends who hadn’t heard it yet; even those who had seemed riveted. He was so full of charisma and with such assurance. Besides that he was kind of cute so, though pathetically, I tried flirting with him for the rest of the night; he didn’t really catch on. We left that night without having exchanged more than ten words between each other, I thought I’d never see him again, turns out I was wrong.
“Broadway CAREols. Show others that you care by enjoying a night of with your favorite blend of Christmas ditties and Broadway biddies” And before you ask, Yes, I did come up with that title, I think it was great and it was at the top of each flyer in big red and green letters and if you asked me “If you could do it again…” I would do it the same each and every time don’t judge me.
It was a show I had to direct for a community service project and of all people he played the piano for my show. Only me and several other girls made up the cast, and I knew how easy it was to mistake a positive attitude for flirtation when it comes from a handsome young man. He ran the music over three or four times individually with each cast member before the night of the show, but when Paolo and I worked that night he stopped me and just sang. For me.
Each night after rehearsal I had to give him a ride home, I was a year older and thus had my license a year sooner. I’d never mind allowing myself more time to bask in the glow of his perfectly understated confidence, so I was happy to oblige. Technically Connecticut state imposed a law forbidding new drivers under the age of 18 to be on the roads past 11 at night. My mom, being a government employee, really stressed this one. His house was a solid ten minutes drive from our rehearsal spot, and my mom often warned me to allow myself enough time to get back home before 11. What started as me beginning to drive faster and faster during the trip home ended as a routine each night, where I would finally allow him to step out of my car just as the clock read 11:00 PM.
Our first kiss was in that car, my first uncontrollable breakdown was in the car, hell the first time he told me he loved me was in that car…right at the lip of the driveway. I learned to ride my brakes perfectly to the point where I could park just beyond the edge of the sidewalk yet just before the point where the porch light would flash on, reminding his mother that his son is out past ten on a school night. It was so warm. I’ll never forget the cadence of his laughter as it trailed off, seamlessly merging with that next statement “Anna, I love you”. I could have sworn the porch light went on.
Now I know it may seem like I don’t care for his being dead right now, but the thing is, I did something. I did something really bad.
You see, I had mentioned that he was up in his room, right? Still, stiff, simply waiting to be brought down in a few hours as the catalyst to another round of tears. Now don’t get me wrong, I did my share of crying the night before. He’d been in the hospital for only a few days and when they told us he was dead…God, he was just so young, two years into college, the friend you have who was chasing his dreams down with a brand new pair of sneakers. That kid the whole town knew because of the multitude of silly town functions he attended. He would always insist. Every other weekend was one silly thing or another “Oh you’re gonna love this. Two words – ‘Poetry showdown’. If you can’t take the heat, don’t stay in the kitchen”
The day of the funeral I just had to see him. I snuck up the two floors to his room on the third floor. As I neared his door at the top of that final flight of stairs each creak of the floorboard seemed to resonate through the house, followed by the hollow silence of my stillness. I paused with each step as if stepping in larger spans of time would make what I was doing seem less suspicious, should someone hear me. Upon touching his doorknob I felt an immediate chill. I couldn’t tell whether it was some ghostly feeling of being in the presence of a dead person, or the fact that the thermostat had been turned down to keep his body prime for viewing.
I held my breath as I opened the door, and blinked a couple times when I saw him. He was wearing what everyone else was in downstairs, black tuxedo and a dark tie. I know he would have scowled had he known he was going to be buried in a constricting penguin suit. We had a conversation about it, you know? Out on Academy Hill, right in the middle of a picnic. We were in enough shade that his transition lenses were only half tinted, and when he sat up, it was abruptly. Pushing my head off his chest he kind of leaned in to the cemetery in the distance and pointed out how sad it is that no one really ever gets the chance to choose how they want to spend the rest of eternity dressed in. He would have preferred his puma sneakers, still white after seven months, his striped green and blue socks, his only pair of ripped designer jeans and that express shirt he loved so much because it showed off his natural physique.
I moved closer, inching toward him at first, then quicker as I broke through a place where I just relaxed, and for a moment he wasn’t dead. For a moment he was just sleeping, all ready in his fancy get up simply waiting for me to wake him up. I found myself sitting next to him, my eyes cast downward, half expecting his gaze to meet mine, and while stroking his hair I got an idea. It happened quickly, and I kind of have a problem with acting upon my impulses, it’s something he used to criticize me on that and I never really improved. Without thinking I threw open his drawer and pulled out what I knew he’d have wanted to be dressed in, should he have gotten the chance to create a will concerning his death-wear. As I pulled of his starchy shirt my hand brushed against his chest, chilled as the room was, eerie as nothing else. I finally got him down past his pants and saw, of all abominations, that he was outfitted in a fresh pair of tighty whities. God, it’s as if the funeral home was asking to be haunted by his tormented soul. I found his single pair of silk boxers and reassembled him in the way I knew he’d have wanted to be.
So great, now everyone will think I’m a loon for having desecrated his body. Well what do they know; I’m the only one who ever really knew him! But how the hell would I explain it to his parents when the pallbearers march in and there he is, laying face up in his street clothes?
This wasn’t right. He didn’t belong here, he needed to be somewhere comfortable, someplace he enjoyed, not sitting upstairs in a suit with the lights off and the air blasting. He hated the cold! Certainly he would have hated a hundred people staring at his dead and lifeless shell, and he would, without a doubt, hate being six feet under, pushing daises at the Nichols Road cemetery.
I wrapped my arms around him, and as the building adrenaline made my breaths deepen I inhaled several moments of ecstasy off his clothes that still clung to his musty scent. I lowered him gently to the floor and took care as I dragged him across the carpet to his door. After fumbling, for what felt like several minutes, on his door handle I got him onto the awning introducing the stairs. I even made it down the first flight of stairs without freezing up at the tiniest creak when I heard someone coming my way. Dammit, they must need to use the bathroom, why couldn’t they just use the one downstairs like any normal person? Without hesitation I throw open up the window near bottom of the stairs, heaving myself and him, sending us tumbling onto the garage roof. Ignoring my probable bruises I spring up and slam the window behind me while taking special care to hide us both as far away from the bathroom window as possible.
Sitting up there, my heart racing, I felt his hand in mine and it was probably because my palms had gone clammy but I swear for a span of time he was alive again. I closed my eyes and felt the breeze in my hair and was transported to a place where I spent a single moment in each day we ever shared. Each beach side sandcastle, each afternoon spent cloud gazing, those same afternoons turning into evenings of star gazing, each and every night spent utterly and irrevocably lost with this silly boy that chose to love me.
I was torn from my oasis as I heard the bathroom’s occupant exit and continue downstairs. Knowing that my van was parked on the other side of the street I pushed his body as close to the edge of the roof as I could without his falling off and let him be. I hopped back inside and ran downstairs, but not before flying through the doors of the memorial and interrupting his mothers eulogy. In an act of sheer brilliance I mustered a few tears and tore out the back door. Everyone figured I was just so taken away by his death that I couldn’t stand to be there anymore. Who knew anxiety could be mistook for remorse so easily?
I ran down the driveway, losing the grace I had composed in my dress in high heels the moment I slammed that door. I jumped into Emmet, my van, because only crazy people drive around in un-named vehicles.
I pulled out of my spot, nearly ruining the paint job on both my and his Uncle Ed’s car. I flew my trunk door open and set the third row down, the general idea being his landing securely in my back seat. I reversed up the driveway with the precision of a surgeon and the speed of a leopard right back to the edge of the garage where I had tossed his body. I jumped out of my car nearly forgetting to put it into park before I shut off the engine. I barely got halfway around my car before becoming transfixed on his hand, hanging off the gutter as if reaching for mine to grab hold and pull him to sweet salvation. I jumped up a few times, unsuccessfully before I took off my shoes and got a good running start. I flew up, grabbed his arm and jerked towards the car in a sideways downward motion. He nearly cracked his head on the pavement coming down, he would have too if it wasn’t for my body breaking his fall. I got up, too distracted by the sheer volume of my own heart to realize the pain I felt. I shoved him into my back seat, slammed the trunk, stumbled into the car, stuck it in reverse and stepped on gas without even putting my shoes back on.
I told you I had done something bad.
They must often
who would be
happiness or wisdom.
It is best to allow
His appointed angels and guides,
To choose each path
And mold each person
As He wishes
He lay there panting,
gorging on every bit of oxygen his clapped out lungs
would allow him to take.
His faced pushed hard against the chewing gum stained concrete.
The blue lights smothering every thought,
every hope he thought he had.
But this man was a dreamer.
This man was never really bad.
And as he tried to gather reason,
he couldn't help but laugh.
He should have seen it coming.
Like headlights on a darkened lonely road.
For if it wasn't for bad luck, he'd have no luck at all.
If it wasn't for those reasons,
he may have skipped the fall.
He pondered, was it karma,
or just plain dumb bad luck.
What if he hadn't ran with panic?.
Would he have pulled it off with some charming monologue
from the recesses of his panicked mind?.
Or was this always gonna be,
the kinda life he was to find.
the world doesn't need any more sour tears
especially not ones as precious as yours;
the only ones you should allow yourself to shed
should taste like laughter and sunshine and summer rain.