It's that time of the year again,
It's everyone's favorite time of the year, ladies and gentlemen.
It's time to be happy,
Stop feeling so crappy!
Kiss under the mistletoe,
Let your love show.
Presents under the tree,
Presents for you and me.
Hot chocolate with marshmallows,
And so much good food until you can't swallow.
Don't take these for granted,
Leftovers could have been all someone wanted.
Pray for those who aren't safe and sound,
For the lost souls waiting to be found.
Greet everyone you love,
And thank the man above.
I'm not playing with legos
I'm not ripping Barbie's head off
I'm not that smiling kid anymore
I learned the pain that comes
When abandonment is everywhere
Pops gone so much
If I did the math He's probably been around
For about 3 years out of 17
So tell me if he's still a man
When money was the root of his departure
Time is more precious then money
Yet I've spent no time with him
You abandoned me the quickest
16 years I've watched the pain
Spread throughout my body like a virus
I'm done with converting it into anger and hate
Yet it's all I know
I've not once received an apology
For not doing anything to help me
You let the darkness consume me
You let the world feast on my soul
And the sinister teeth of almost every girl I've been with
Eat out the heart so cold
They considered it a dessert
I'm not three anymore
So the pain I feel I can understand
But it's not something a band-aid can fix
Not something a kiss from a mother can cure
So I hope you're happy with yourself
Helicopter seeds descending from tree houses
resting in ponds shadowed by shaken needles;
—I awoke from a dream this morning—
Forests in fiery oranges plagued by pine beetles
A man fishing in the dusk, a sole fish he arouses.
—such a dreamin' I had me—
How about them men, hermit'd, high, isolated,
pensive with pens in ink, draftin' a'lookin' after their suicide notes:
—it was nonsensical, such nonsense—
That's a candle left burning,
that's saints speaking in tongues,
that's men hung like curtains on rungs–
This world is getting old, times are a'turning.
That's a taxi cab afterlife,
that's pills on the floor in Rio,
that's a formerly formal run-on sentence
tell me, your honor, what is the sentence?
That's writer's block and cramped hands, cramped hearts,
that's a hovel heated by an oven, heads found in hot ovens,
that's the hillside and the glens past where the track bends but
just before the dens of monsters that I swear I left behind that night.
—dreamin' a'dazin' and days in always let my demons out—
That night I hid a razor in the rafters
ran away to sell maps of the human heart.
I traded the Midwest for West Coast sunsets.
I left my home.
Some people said they were so sorry that I had to uproot.
I was not.
My home was my prison.
My cellmate was the red faced, foul hearted man I'm supposed to call father.
Who used his fists to persuade me that I was not good enough.
I hung my head low.
I started dancing with razors and the thought of death was my only solstice.
I left behind self esteem stealing girls and fire breathing dragons.
I clawed my way out of the hole in the ground that I was tossed into.
My body is littered with scars and my eyes are dull, brightness stolen
but still, I carry on because I traded the Midwest for West Coast sunsets.
the idea of
scraping ice from my car
kept me inside today
and now that Nelson Mandela’s dead
I don’t know what’s what
(why am I phased by the passing
of a man who I didn’t know
my stomach resents
hot chocolate that was too
sweet for mid-December
(is it already December?
the scars from summer
suns haven’t faded yet)
maybe this is why winter
to mourn the deaths of
I’m not saying you should have to wipe clean your political slate to understand the power for oppression is in the hands of the state.
Legislative discrimination is slated against us.
Divisive measures are taken to sew distrust.
I don’t believe there is any higher power we can trust.
And certainly no fucking government.
I don't know how to feel.
I'll be okay.
Hope is still within' me.
There's just too much to learn how to deal.
It's as if I'm reading the Yellow Wallpaper again.
As she walks around the room, circles, circles.
The paper learning her routine.
My mind taking the same route, man.
Allow me to smile for you;
I'm trying so hard.
And you walked out, holding hands with her.
Don't worry, that was my cue.
Told you I was going to bed.
Both of you.
It's as if my hands were behind my back, bound and tied.
I'm gonna let this week go by.
Music and studies are calling my name.
And you all will see me around, but not for too long.
I'm sorry, it's just all one big lie.
A flower is a flower, this holds true.
I don't really understand the big deal.
I mean fuck, even that thing will die too.
Despite the color, be it green or blue,
There's only so much that a person can feel.
I think flowers are a waste of space, do you?
True the birds sing, and your flowers do bloom.
But does the widow care about your rose?
What about the killer? Or long lost groom?
Go ahead, sing to it; ignore your doom.
Hell, this life is so plastic; strike a pose.
But don't forget, a dead man has no room.
Maybe it's true, you're so petty; petite.
They call him a dork, a nerd, and a geek.
That he managed to live was quite a feat.
Run from the flower, think you did not meet.
Go to your future, it's the truth you seek.
Not now, don't you dare pretend to be meek.
You are one of millions, to them I greet.
The wharf was busy; it was a Saturday and the sun was high in the sky. Strangely enough, it was hot. She wanted to get to the deYoung in time.
Eliza pulled impatiently on the hand and pulled her toward the circle of people, who were no doubt watching a street urchin or a performer.
“No, honey,” her mother said, “not today.” Eliza didn’t listen and ran up, wedging herself between the bodies of bystanders.
“Look, mommy! It’s a game.”
The man was a con, Marie knew this. She let Eliza gander.
“One dollar a play, ladies and gents,” the man said, “sorry sweetheart, kids aren’t allowed.” Eliza looked up at her mommy and pushed a dollar in to her hand. Not wanting a scene, Marie smiled and put it down.
“Just once, darling,” she said through whitened teeth and a botoxed smile. She didn’t know why she was doing this. It came to her in the moment and so she acted.
The man put a ball in the cup and told her to watch so she did. His hands were swift and mesmerizing. She knew that the ball was under the right one. She pointed. He lifted. It wasn’t there. Eliza wanted to know if she could play and if not why. Her mother told her that it was a big girl game and little girls couldn’t play. Eliza started crying so Marie put down another dollar and let her watch, just to get her to shut up. The man twisted to cups again and she failed. It happened again. And again, and again. The deYoung would close, she knew, but nothing could compare to the feeling of winning. In the end, the man got twenty of her dollars. The museum wasn’t so important.
When they were in the Saint Francis’s elevators, Marie bent down and smiled at Eliza.
“When poppa asks, dear, remember: we went to the museum and had a splendid time.”
Who am I?
I ask myself this question almost on a daily basis.
People say no matter how hard we try to fight it,
we always end up like our parents.
But with a nonexistent father,
and a gambling addicted mother,
I have nobody in my life to learn from,
or to grow to emulate.
So I'm left an empty vessel,
with the choice of who I am.
After years of trying to fit in,
And trying to find the affection I never got at home,
I look into a mirror unable to recognize the man standing in front of me.
I've chameleoned my way through every situation,
And now I'm left asking,
Who Am I?