As I wake up on a cold park bench
With pebbles being thrown at me
My clothes are torn and I smell a stench
Of alcohol reeking from me
As I rub my icy blue hands
Over my hungover face and dark eyes
I wince as I try to stand
I double over and muffle a cry
What is she doing?
I hear the dirty whispers of passer-byes
With sideway glances and pursed lips
As if I was deaf and blind
To my worn out clothes and rips
When's the time?
Asked the barista at 9 a.m.
"Living on the streets for months"
"Come on, you don't give a damn"
And I know he's smiling with smug triumph
What can I do?
I heard an old lady say from the corner shop
I smiled: "maybe a time machine would do
Or a job or a home or for the prices to drop
But you're too kind, I don't want to bother you"
So what is there to do
And what is the point
Of questions I can't answer
And people that disappoint?
Look at me, drunk and homeless
Who here did I not anger?
And look at them, fulfilled and blessed
Who's the obvious winner?
Could you ever shamelessly answer?
You're never coming back
It all ended just like the movies
You were the main character
She was your leading lady
I was the obstacle you had to overcome
And you rode off into the sunset with her
And I was hurt and alone
The way it was meant to be
You never see the antagonist's ever after
500 names and 500 bodies
Each one born to a family
Each one the crypt of its own stories
500 names and 500 stories
Stories that won’t be told in the newspaper
Not even in a little box under the
Front page headline that tells you to be afraid
Be afraid of the streets at night
Be afraid of what could be waiting in your own backyard
Be afraid of people who are poorer than you
Be afraid of people who are a different color than you
Be afraid of people who practice different religions than you
Be afraid of the mother whose cries of anguish, cries of pain
Echo from the street outside
Because she buried her bullet-riddled son today
He doesn’t get his name in the paper
He wasn’t on the honor roll
And he’d gotten into some trouble
But he had the misfortune to be born on the South Side
To a woman who has to live with being called a welfare queen
A woman who worked two jobs just to feed him
who worked her fingers to the bone
to provide him a home
She’d rather feel the burden of providing for him
Than feel the agony of missing him
Because every day on the 20th of February
She’ll be going to his grave instead of his birthday party
And he’ll become another name on a list
One of 500 names that a politician
Can put on a chart and say
This. Must. Change.
And revel in the cheap applause he’s stolen
But will forget about once he’s been chosen
500 names and 500 dollar bills
Dollar bills you hide behind because money is the only God you know
But dollar bills can burn
Dollar bills are just green pieces of paper
Green like greed
Green like Lady Liberty
Green like the huddled masses Lady Liberty promised to protect
Green like the envious masses throwing their money away on Lucky Lotto
In the desperate hope that they might someday compete with you!
And be welcomed into your gated communities
With open arms
And open palms
And open hearts
But you don’t know anything about that because you are heartless
If poverty creates violence,
then wealth creates intolerance
500 deaths is a tragedy
But for you, it’s just something to read
At your breakfast table in your house in the suburbs
Comforted by the headlines that try to make you afraid
"I don't act this way to change the world. I act this way so that the world won't change me."-- Patricia Charbonneau in 'Desert Hearts'
as The Act
is but an act.
Intangible at that.
She may be silent,
but She is strident
She is given a voice.
The Lady thespian,
as the objected
by the subjected
and the objected.
Greta Garbo dominates
Betty Davis hesitates
but follows the new ones.
the ideal hoe,
erases Her history,
creating a new toxic one;
"Look and touch
as you please,
"Blame the woman for everything"
say 'Ordinary People'
and the Academy
shoot to 'Kill Bill'
for a manly thrill
Still waiting for change...
a Blonde has brains, too.
But who knew
All from Her:
on the big screen.
Your first book into the amazing world
catapulted me into a mentality I'd never know
The Seam, the Capitol, the arena…
I grew into Katniss and developed survival instincts
I surely would not need
Peeta, Gale, Cinna, Katniss
when Katniss grieved, I weeped.
My life nearly ended
when I flipped the last page
I loved every chatacter.
I adored Lady, the goat, for crying out loud!
The movie was atonishing.
So now it is 2013.
Catching Fire has arrived.
November's here, forget the turkey
I don't want to see Charlie Brown specials
I want to see the Quarter Quell
And my hero rise against the Capitol again
from the Mockingjay dress to the water world
a spark to a rebellion
Finnick and Joanna
though I know the whole script
I'll anticipate every second
of the ticking arena
So Hunger Games, I do love thee.
My castigation was decided long before my backslide. And that is inexcusable, the righteous might declare "unfair". But I don't want any belligerent accusations against this 'unjust watchfulness' from above. Some entity must have understood that I didn't need guidance; I needed walls: some forcing to reach my destiny. Without my jailer, I'd have chosen one of three and let them lead me into a darkness that the pitiful call 'demons'. Claws and teeth? No, each monster was irreplaceable and I loved them. If possible, if they could comprehend a 'love', I vow they would have loved me. But the Warden took them: my punishment before my crime. Perhaps the disposal of these beasts seems considerate, but toss aside those foolish illusions because the burden has not lessened rather, it is unfamiliar. Omitting strength, for I lost my foundation, I stand in fear with this hole. The Three aren't returning; I'm left with loose bindings - the knots are the songs of my memories. Beautiful Terrors, do I need you? Let me tell you their stories.
I remember his voice calling for me. "Daisy! Flowers for you." It was our little game, and I'm sure he made girls jealous when he handed me a bouquet of roses.
My name was Petunia, but I hated that name, and I loved all that's yellow.
So when we were little he took my hand, and we went into a treefort, and he dubbed me Lady Daisy.
He was 7 and I was 4, and there began my adoration.
Then I was older and heartbroken, and I was calling him. "Waldon! It's hurting me."
He arrived so soon, I was still in hysteria - that of a 14 year old gone through breakup.
Then I cried harder because somehow my brother presented me with a tulip and declared, "It's an early present from the only boy who's going to love you more than I do."
17, and I understood fascination. And Willow (for though it's girly, I liked it more than Waldon, and he let it be) was entranced by a wild girl. She was a shockbomb - a warm sungirl that rocked stilettos and never littered nor waited past a minute.
He fell for her so hard from so high.
One day that girl kissed him straight on the lips, then jetted off to England.
Said he could follow her in spirit.
I couldn't hate her because she left his body, but it was hard to appreciate his body when the government took even that away, insisting he be laid beneath cold dirt. Then too many questions: "Why did you hold his hand for three days? Were you thinking of following? Petunia, why won't you buy flowers for the gravestone?" Then there were horrified eyes when I asked who Petunia was, because I had forgotten. Or, truthfully, there was no Petunia, only Daisy. And Daisy had Willow. The Flower and the Tree: that was supposed to be the story. So I refused to buy flowers, and without any sort of ceremony I stopped being 'Lady' and became 'Crazy Daisy', who talked to her demons. Now you see why I never wanted to part with Number One, because although he was a monster (you can't deny the terror of a body with no spirit), he knew me best.
Dear Warden, I've no suicide in me, and there's none left could lead me there, and it may be that I've grown taller, but I'm practically blind.
She was weak since I can remember. I'd say her vulnerability was pneumonia, which I can only presume led to my hatred of 'Petunia': two words incredibly similar when reason encounters a child.
And I liked her name "Maribel" because it sounded like a flower.
I mimicked my brother, but he was persistent that I must call her mother.
Again, this made no sense until 8, when I had a revelation that all this time I'd had no family. At least not in the heart of a girl, because Maribel wasn't a vibrancy to look up to., though she was my one relation.
There was just her in a bed. Sometimes a man visited but I never knew why Willow grew tense; all I saw was my mother acquire spots of brown. How I loved brown, because it seemed as though she was genuinely Mother, like all those other moms that the sun tans, or that could be given filthy hugs that left patches of dirt. In turn, I always welcomed that man, and he was a 'saviour'.
And Willow's father.
Death found both Willow and that man (I know, now, the difference) before I understood 'abuse', and try not to blame me because she never complained and I thought abuse meant people were unhappy, but I saw both of them smile. I laid her beside him, but with space inbetween: a ground for my casket. Because I'd gone slightly crazy and I was telling Number Two that if I awakened as a zombie, I'd need to be able to find his hand first.
That was nuts. But Warden, I don't fully understand. You stopped her bleeding, but I'm left with nothing. I hear their voices in my head, telling me I'm healthy, but I know I'm barely breathing.
I dealt Three tragedy. And in doing so, I guilted myself into worthlessness. Classic to the moral law is: it is not acceptable to introduce a roommate to a shady character. But I ignored the concept of shady - applauded my nonjudgmental attitude, because with my twisted past I would have also been a shadowy figure. With a sweet, sweet smile, I handed that bright girl over to a Peacock who promised to give her 'a good feeling.' And I ignored her tears, because he said he'd please her.
Maybe if I hadn't been loopy, the only way I could "be" with One, I might have noticed that me and he weren't the same, and I could have judged him like the others.
Annie, I'm sorry, please just shine once more.
Even if you're afraid of me and my wickedness, don't be sucked into the gloom, because I can't offer advice to resurface, when I think there's none.
Now, there's Zero for me to turn to, because that's what I am. I am empty. I suppose that's what happens when I trust a boy who leaves, yearn for one who's weak, and think I've the durability to rely on myself (but I've equaled a pitch black crater for a while now).
You're more clear now, Warden. I can understand why you've taken everything. Since nothing I had would give me my fairyland ending. But where's my reward? I need my gift first, because these feet don't know which direction to head, and it's more like I was holding onto rocks that cut me while they warmed me. My feet kick against the waves, but in this half-in half-out position I can't get a good momentum, so a hand now would be nice.
My stories, did they surprise? I hear all this chatter about monsters, but I think we've got them wrong. Monsters simply have a hold one you, and there's no release before you've no choice but to part. They are strong, and it's true that I saw nothing stronger than the Willow. Only my jailer saw my potential, and he directed me to Zero. He asked for recognition so that I knew my task was not optional and he raised my walls until I stood there, lonely - pushed into belief in myself. But now I am the strongest I know, and I am walking on wind, and from up here I cannot see a single barrier. But Warden, don't you ever leave because if those walls break for a second and I see my demons, I know I'll lose flight and beg them to come back. And that would be the end, because there's no chance Number Four.
Love contemplates creating the end of the world.
Between two poets.
Each with banners unfurled.
The madder it was, the madder it is
Was undeniably so real.
Love crucified lady and gent.
Everything was totally meant.
Blazing soul, dripping in the mid-day sun.
Now waiting impatiently to die.
In broken voice with sodden eyes.
He cried and held and held some more.
Wanted his love not to go.
Back in her domain.
Upon papyrus scroll she wrote.
Okay poetic imagination.
Papyrus just really tatty old piece of paper.
A letter, which became a portent of almost certain doom.
Weighed a tonne inside his head.
So still in bits she sits.
Wishing that she hadn't sent.
The letter led to her demise.
Still she sits and f**king cries.
I know that this might sound crazy .
But, you're my kind of lady.
And even though I can be lazy,
you make me feel amazing.
So many things to say,
this song will do Okay
even if you don't pray,
with you is where I wanna stay.
Close my eyes and see you,
and some how I can feel you.
I know that I was wrong,
so I wrote this song.But,
now that you hear me,
just know you're always near me.
"I keep you in my heart!"
Annabel, I wish you happy birthday.
forget about the worst days,
just know that you are worth it.
Opened my eyes! You helped me to see,
freed me from my disease.
Showed me how beautiful life can be.
Hope she likes it..a little corny lol but I believe the best gifts come from the heart..
My sisters are an hour fifteen late
And I've been shopping for coats so long
That I'm starting to measure the worth of my weight in their wool
I feel your rejection surround me when the XL doesn't fit just right
So I throw it back on the hanger and try not to look at myself in the dressing room light
I sit down on the bench half defeated
I found a grey one I like
Fits me perfect and I look good
Until I turn to the side
But I'll take it cause its classy and nice
I can feel their stares on me as they walk by
So I stop looking at my phone long enough to catch their eye
Let them know their judgement hasn't gone unseen
Cause I can sense what they're thinking
Or maybe call it paranoia
But when your co worker calls you beautiful
And the lady waiting on her paint
Pulls a card out her purse and says, "Beautiful but not healthy. I can help you lose weight"
And you stand there with your mouth gaped
Because this was the icing on top of your shit cake
Cause this week your man cheated on you
But showed no remorse
And a stranger woman saw you
As a product to endorse
And it took fifteen coats
Just to feel alright
After pulling at your fat in the fluorescent light
And the woman picking out the flannel pants
Made you think of last Christmas, placing them in his hands
And the music above your head
Held no holiday cheer
Just another reminder that you're ending this year... alone
And you forget to remember he has a new home
And you spent a split second wondering if he wished he were here
And you know why he doesn't when you look in the mirror
So I pick myself up
With my coat in my arms
Walk behind my sisters having a conversation of their own
I'm mostly invisible but that's the way we've grown
Laugh a few times, lay thick on the charm
Because they don't have time for shit weeks or broken hearts
When somehow holding it together feels a lot like falling apart.
The world has forgotten about the moon,
which is fine.
Filled with holes and
long-distance relationships never work out.
The moon can do better.
Sometimes I look up into the sun and
wonder what the flames are thinking.
Imagination is a powerful tool.
The sun never responds.
It blocks the view.
I can do better.
What happens when the dead come back to life?
Will we still watch reality TV?
Keeping up with the Corpses.
The strange will inherit the Earth.
The glare of the office's lights are blinding.
I wonder how many secrets
the wall clock can remember.
My cube neighbor and I have an argument.
I suggest that Spiderman is a terrible superhero,
he shows me his Brown Recluse bite.
I will still claim victory.
To the lady walking down N. Broadway,
pretending that she is a bird.
I get it,
I want to fly as well.
There is no will left to fight.
I will never reach my fullest potential.
That is something I will remember forever.
I am hoping for the best.
A fool's errand.
Hope is something that
rich men talk about, while
flying through the clouds.
The sun is their ally.
Keeping the poor from dreaming.
My only plans for the New Year,
are sitting on my couch,
drinking beer, and
watching the walls dance.
Bubbles busting in celebration,
while I fall asleep at 12:01 AM.
Thus is the life of an adult.
Listening to the ruins of society,
waiting for the witches to burn.