In second grade,
My mom made me wear dresses everyday.
My mom would part my hair down the middle and make two long braids with colorful hair ties.
I would go to school and the boys would make fun of my dresses.
The boy that sat behind me would pull my braids anytime I said something smart.
In fourth grade,
I told my mom I could dress myself, but she still had to approve of every outfit.
I told my mom I was old enough to style my own hair.
I would go to school and the boys would make fun of my weight instead of my clothes.
The boy that sat behind me would sit next to me and call me names for being the stupid one in smart classes.
In seventh grade,
I told my mom that I didn't care what she thought.
I cut my long hair shoulder length.
I started wearing dark makeup.
The boys didn't make fun of my weight but they would ask me out as a joke.
The boy that sat behind me and then next to me, liked me and texted me every night saying how pretty I was.
In the ninth grade,
My mom wasn't awake to see what I wore to school.
I regretted the very day I decided to cut my hair.
The boys that called me fat; left me alone because they found someone bigger to pick on.
The boy that sat behind me asked me for a naked picture and I said no.
He called me a fat, ugly, prude and never talked to me again.
In the tenth grade,
My mom borrowed my clothes and I borrowed hers.
My hair fell out but I wanted it to grow.
Boys no longer call me fat because they never saw me eat.
And the boy that sat behind me wanted me back.
I cried myself to sleep and hid my wrists in my sleeve.
It's funny how many things changed since the second grade.
While you sleep, I am awake, I sit at the foot of your bed and I stand guard,
it is difficult to ward off the imps that chase you far and hard,
To me it appears you are asleep, yet you toss, you turn, whimper and startle,
I hear your groans and I drop my head, I may look defeated, but I am just in prayer,
I can't stop those mares who stamp at night,
bridled rein in the hand of a dark heart,
They rest in the daylight when you are not able to stop or go slow, but hark,
they come calling as the sun is low and you are a feather falling lightly, oh that stark,
reality is they are waiting for you land like a rock,
you always do hope for a soft one on a blanket in a park,
but I know concrete slab and cold steel greet you and
the shadows take aim and mark,
your journey this night, the scars don't show by mornings light, yet the drains tap,
into your energy, and I can only watch, no weapon in my hand, no tear from my eye,
will ease the battle, so I pray and I pray to remind me to pray,
as you alone enter the fray,
defenceless, against the assault, we know there is no fault,
or if you were to give in and stay
until the dreams ran out,
of their hold, that heartless vice that turns and won't
let go of your beautiful fertile imaginative mind, vulnerable
and alone. I am beside you and
yet I wait, to comfort, with only a word that I am near,
you are not alone, "I am here", night watching.
Too dark to see,
Too far to reach,
Too large to ignore,
Yet we sit waiting.
Waiting for what might one day be visible,
Maybe on a special occasion be in our grasp,
Possibly shrink enough to ignore.
Hopelessly waiting will do nothing.
Hopelessly waiting will water the seed never intended to grow.
The only way to stop it…
Conquer the unknown…
Explore the depths of reality…
Is to leap.
Shred the odious black hole that rages within.
Smash it into the mud.
Burry it in the ocean.
Suffocate it with courage.
And then, there will be no fear. Only accomplishments.
Darling, you’ll be alright
Food won’t kill you but your mind might.
and hold on.
The storm will pass
and you’ll move on.
The danger is in over thinking
The power is in not eating
All sanity is gone.
So sit tight and hold on.
i think you were like the sun
i loved your glow and warmth
and i doodled your rays into old notepads
and my heart
i stayed out when i could to play in your warmth
and you gently kissed the bridge of my nose
and sprinkled freckles, tokens of your love,
onto my face
and you whispered "stay"
so i did
but when i grew tired of the heat
i asked you to come sit with me
in the shade of an old willow tree
and the sky shifted into a black oblivion
it was then i realized that you had gone
and your heat has left my heart rotting
my skin still bubbles and crackles
from the summer i spent in the sun
Popping out from slumberous state,
Little buds, you come to life.
Fight, fist, fend the odds,
You’re different; you survive.
Combative, commanding, cruel,
Your army, every restraint exceeds,
As it marches on, devouring
The very platter on which it feeds.
Slithering, slipping stealthily,
Deadly tentacles spare no bone, sinew.
Boundaries are blurred; your territory expands,
Your militia continues to exponentially grow.
And soon, your red flags of victory-
Those flags of death, demise and doom
Are planted everywhere; each bit
Of terrain you’ve invaded and consumed.
There you sit, content, in the middle of all the gloom,
Immortal, indestructible, infinite.
With power of the magnitude you possess,
There’s no force that can give you a fight.
And when flies of decay begin to hover over
Your kingdom, you smile, flexing your pincers.
Thriving on the depressing glow of the setting sun,
You- the kark, the crab, the cancer.
(to the malady that ate my Grandmother away)
And as I sit here pondering about my life,
The only thing that arouses over and over is you.
As girls, we crave the touch of tenderness and serenity;
To be looked at with presence and with the gold ness in your eyes.
If we are lucky enough to find it, grasp onto it like a rope,
Because one day you will look back and say, "He was my only hope."
I do so hope you're not as lost as I,
My young, beloved warrior.
Why that tear bedims your eye,
As you charge forth to your death
I hope you know what you're fighting for,
My passionate, silly lover boy
Why you chose to end your life before
Any of it had even started
I want to know why, naive, young man
You went and left me here alone,
To sit and wonder how I can
Bring you back to me
But every time you hear that name,
I see you burn with anger,
I see your heart burst into flame
With a passion I'll never understand
I don't know what it did to you,
That one inglorious monster,
Of the pain you feel I have no clue
Or of the terrors which came after
So come back to me once more my love,
Don't let it ruin all you care for
And I will help you rise above
The anger and the pain
Every I go
My rear is there for me
It gives comfort when I sit
Should I decided to bend the knee
With strong advice from my wife
I need to keep my cheeks pinched tight
So everywhere I go
My brains don't spill out on the floor
It has been said that religion is a crutch. Well then my friends, let us praise those who only need one crutch to get around!
I fear that even two crutches would not suffice for me. Even standing still or walking, the result would be an unceremonious fall. Although walking is a hallmark of humanities' ancestors, I myself would need the aid of a wheelchair.
Let us also not forget those who have no help at all. For some, this means they can walk tall. For others not so gifted by fate, fortune or heritage, it means they must crawl.
So I, from my perspective of low-position and station, whether in need of the wheelchair or the rough ground to crawl upon, find it relatively inane and banal to critique my fellow invalids, cripples, and broken souls. Alas this wheelchair is no mean platform to sit in judgement from; excepting for hypocrisy, that acquaintance to us all.
So should we all point at each others infirmities, shortcomings, and private tragedies, waving our crutches in accusation at the prosthetic limbed protagonist before us? Or should we silently be thankful if we have enough to get by, - crutches, chairs, slings and all?
Perhaps I miss the subtle verve and nuance of these careful considerations, but is the bottle, the pill, the embrace of another, the painter in rapt repose, the musician playing away, no more than a diversion of differences from sling to crutch to chair? Who is the least crippled seems a game most perverse to play with a crowd looking for a cure.
Perhaps my betters can explain how to judge others so swiftly, truly, and justly? Pointing out so and so's prior sins and what's wrong with them. I am but a poor soul who simply resorts to love, lacking the telepathy to read the hearts and minds and know the travails and tribulations of the unknown cripple we castigate.
So please, weary traveler, let me give you the wheelchair and I will keep the crutch in return, but do not fret, I only carry the crutch to give to the first person I find crawling.
Only then, needing to walk but having no aid, will I finally learn how to choose love over fear and strive for truth as I am unmoved, slowly wasting away.