I've heard it a million times before.
It does not matter on my mathematics score.
I'm just as simply social as you.
I've had it, I'm through.
I'm homeschooled. Great.
Doesn't mean I can't speak in public.
Why is everyone giving me hate?
Honestly, can you relate?
To having everyone you meet.
That you greet.
Think that you can't keep up a conversation?
So, please, I ask you kindly.
To shut the hell up.
Statistically I'm more social than you.
I'm not incapable.
My knowledge is more than satiable.
I'm far from a genius and I'm not retarded.
You call me antisocial one more time.
And I'll put my "Antisocial" fist in your eye.
Get a clue people, I'm human too.
Anger consumes my body, like fire from hell
My body keels over from lack of food
Food which I purposely neglected to provide
Hate, abuse, deceit and anger take over me
Pure ugliness, staring me in the face
People that are supposed to care, supposed to love
Who claim to care and claim to love
Yet seem to me as wolves in sheep’s clothing
Wanting to control me, dominate me, constrict me
Who crush me over and over again
And wonder why we are always butting heads
Sadness creeps in my heart, but it is not mine
And it saddens me more that I feel her hurt
My heart aches for love, for touch, for affection
It longs to love and to be loved
But all it receives is sadness and pain
Crying out for love, my body cries too
Not with tears, but with blood
A deep crimson red running out of me
Staining everything in its path
As this blood runs out of me, so does my strength, my energy
I am exhausted and long to sleep
But my mind is forever going, going, going …
Why? Why? Why? Why?
The question of a thousand why’s consumes me …
Threatening to crush my very soul.
"All I know is that I know nothing."- Socrates
You live with the
idea of death
You love with the
opportunity to hate
You try to learn of the
Which is an impossible task to take
And all the while you c o n t r a d i c t yourself
Sometimes making your life a living hell
It was a quote my grandmother used to recite to my mother in Spanish. My mom then recited it to me in Spanish and I wrote a poem about it in English.
This is a draft. I am still trying to end the poem a certain way...
This is besides the point but I feel so awful. This girl I'm semi-friends with were hanging out in an art room because it is really pretty and spacious...so I told her not to touch anything especially the pottery and she agrees. Literally two minutes later she picks up a newly made pot by the art teacher and breaks it. It was a perfect pot and she broke it. I had been in there with like 2 people the day before and they agreed not to touch anything and they didn't..so who would think she would have picked it up and broken it. I freaked out because I didn't know how to tell my art teacher because I felt so bad. The girl wanted to keep it a secret but someone had just been in there making a pot and had moved that pot from the wheel and I did not want the art teacher to think it was them so I had to take responsibility. So my initial thought was that I was gonna take all the blame for the broken pot due to the fact the girl did not want the teacher to know it was her...not that guessing it was that girl is going to be hard considering I have no student friends but besides that I could have told her again not to touch it but I thought she would listen to me. So after this person I talked to convinced me not to take all the blame for something that wasn't completely my fault, I sent an email to the teacher. I've never felt so bad! Just the fact that this teacher has been so nice to me and I literally took over his space in his room and he ends up with a broken pot. I think I'm more disappointed in myself because I knew this girl never listens to anything you say but I still thought she wouldn't touch it. On top of feeling absolutely awful due to that incident I also have a geometry exam Monday. I just want to hide under a rock and never come out.
The Bottle of Water By My Bed
Parched so oft,
Everything dried out,
Throat, life, poetic inspiration,
Yes, getting out of bed is hell on earth.
The Bottle of Water By My Bed,
She makes sure is always there,
Named and bottled from a special source,
"I'm Here, Don't You Dare Leave"
Says the label, further noting that source of this water is
Heart Springs Eternal, USA.
Ha. Smile. Get outta bed, take a sip,
Damn that bottle of loving constancy.
There will be days where
you can't move,
can't get out of bed.
Where you have no desire
for activities. But then,
there's that flicker of hope, that
"You can do it!" voice that
keeps shooting in your mind.
Then, you get up and have the
strength to do anything.
Where does strength come from?
What does it mean? How strong
you are? Courage? If we have
strength, we must have weakness
right? Our weakness show we are
only human. We aren't perfect. Hell
no we're not perfect, an I'm fine with
that. Life isn't about figuring out
our flaws, it's to celebrate we have life.
My strength comes from being myself.
There are days where gravity works
overtime and where lifting your fork
seems impossible, but I'll still smile.
Rain or shine, I smile. Everyday is
a new day, a new chance to be
Believe in you.
Fix me, for I am torn
Stitch me, for I am worn
I wrote it all down, Ma
Many times, all for you
I dug it all out, Pa
Every word, each line is true
"Do you need," you start to say
"To leave the house today?
"To walk outside and leave behind
"The anger you display?"
Perhaps its come at last
My moment the levy breaks
I open my lips but the wire is tripped
"I'm fine," a smile, a fake
But I left the page open
The tab with my last poem
I think to myself, "damn it to hell!"
And bring safari back to home
Is it even worth it?
The wound from afar is small
A scrape, a cut, we all endure as much
But then the other shoe falls
Should I keep it up
My facade, dramatic and spritely?
Or like in the song I've not for so long
Should I let it burn brightly?
Fix me, for I am torn
Stitch me, for I am worn
But put down the goddamn needle
Athens, February the seventh of two thousand thirteen
A long day is perishing, its dawn was short, its rain perpetual and its air heavy,
And I think it is a shame that you are not here with me, now that I look my watch and its 6 o’clock in the afternoon.
I have the stark feeling that Athens was much,, much more yellow with you here,
now that in my magic eyes are candles, and in my head bells, and that I listen the tachycardic throb of this keyboard,
being punched with rugged fingers for almost 3 pages, now that I see the clock and its 7 already,
I pop my knuckles just to harvest some cassavas for you, and briefly, I found myself judicious.
Because, today as always, and also as ever, I think it is a shame that you are not here with me…
My left foot aches like hell and I think about which running shoes I will buy, then I cherish the time we bought your brown running shoes and then, wonder the ones I just picked will like you, because
Maybe, in that near and also far day of fall, I will be using them, when I met you again.
Maybe then I will watch into my cellphone and, being 8 p.m. already, you will say “Hello, my love” while walking toward me … and I will say “Hello, my heifer”… And we will stand right there, both of us… me, stained with the green sea color of your glaucomic eyes, and you, with the blue stain of my banished loneliness.
To cast away them old anxieties
I stringently hold my course
Turning away from mystic deities
I only focus on the source
The spirit forms to fit
A reality that refuses to bend
And questions of our existence
Are blown by perpetual winds
Who can really say beyond a doubt
If we’re temporal or we’re permanent
No scientific experiment
Could ever positively determine it
And as we strive to understand
Just why the hell we’re here
We’re distracted by the cosmos
And the music of the spheres
The thought of becoming stardust
when you die
is a reassuring one.
Being strewn across millions of
light years seems exciting.
Witnessing stars being born,
planets forming life,
stars collapsing in on themselves
and becoming black holes.
It's appealing compared to
going to a gloomy underworld,
or worrying about a punishing hell,
who deserves to burn and who will become angels.
It wouldn't matter,
you'd be apart of the growing universe.
Here I am
heaven and hell
I sit on my balcony
and watch the gnomes
in my neighbors garden
Waiting for them to come alive
like they did in the stories
my mother used to read to me
I thought I saw movement
but it was either a cat
or a ghost
In the morning
I went to the post office
but it was closed
So I took her present
for a walk
through the forest nearby
As if I'd find her at the end
of the overgrown track
and deliver it personally
When I returned home
the gnomes were dancing
and I could almost see her
spinning in the middle