I think we all have puzzles that represent our life
But for me most of the pieces are just missing
I think I threw them away when I was just a child
But now my whole reality is sinking
I hid them away in a box somewhere deep inside my mind
but I threw away the key so long ago
I try to get it open, just to peer inside
but apparently, that is not an option
I think my brain is protecting me from things that I don't know
But now all my memories seem to be fading
I just want to finish this puzzle so I can figure out
But maybe that would ruin more than it would be saving
A B.S.Hunter's view on poor people
I work up to 60/70 hours per week and screw around on F.B & Craigslist. We had weeks of debating the poor and how some leech off the state. Had people hollering leech to all poor people even the ones in cities like Detroit where they said blacks love living on welfare and they uneducated and they come from the planet ghetto jungle bunny. Not my words but they exist in my city with population 15 thousand. Poster on Craigslist challenged community to playact we were broke,
contact dhs and get info on how much a poor person with number of your own household gets per month along with food stamps.
To make it seem real, I took out the exact amount I would get if I was a poor person. Gave possession of check books and cash and my own house key to my dad and told him what i was doing. He said good luck son you wont make it on state aid. It was cheating but I did keep my car cause no way in hell am I waiting hours for a bus and walking on busy S. Airport and streets such as Garfield is dangerous. I rode that bus when my car was getting new tires and a tune up and it smelled bad like sweat funk.
Funds are put on a bridge card, that's cash aid and food stamps here in Michigan. I thought with this small amount of cash how in the hell will i survive?
I discovered pretty damned fast I could not afford rent and best I could afford was a nasty room in a place in downtown are where poor people rent rooms and no one should be living in. I wouldn't let my dog stay there and I felt like I should be packing a gun for protection. No minorities but whites who are down on their luck. Could not afford the small deposit even for that nasty dump. I cheated and bunked with a friend. That place is what you wont see come film festival or cherry festival time.
Forget having enough to buy healthy foods. I could afford bread and high carb fattening shit that nobody should have to live off. If I was poor I could not afford fresh produce I'd be eating cheap shit I could afford and if I had kids it would be far worse off.
I quit after a few days and would be hating life if I was poor.
Northern Michigan craigslist posters are notorious for flagging truth.
They flag and remove what they don't want to see on forum when it
don't agree with ass backward views of our good citizens.
They run people off with ignorance and now some like me have come here
and now see some of the ignorant have followed and joined this site posing as poets.
Found this when I went to site from a person claiming to be on vacation in Florida
but keeps posting and posting on our Forum. Poster now claims he is in Gaylord
that "drooling halfwit" always gives this one who changes locations away.
" red cross (gaylord)
Let me get this straight,you can afford the internet and a car but too poor to buy gas??Bet you wish that fake boycott worked stupid.You drive around looking for free handouts so you can drive around.This story is such bullshit,just like you.Get a job lazy drooling halfwit.
Posters originally posted months ago but keeps renewing same post. This posted after someone was refused gas by the red cross while red cross volunteers sat there eating their lunch. Person was driving around on fumes. You try telling this idiot people down don't stay broke forever and you get posts like this one from idiots.
I did not rely on hear say, I made calls to red cross. Red cross does not provide gas money to walk ins and they provide help in unexpected disasters BUT not to poor people already homeless. They did build a luxury hotel on property bought using donations but I can't tell you why they built it.
I am breaking
I am stealing
I am wasting myself
I am wasting myself
I am wasting everything on what I want to never be
Caring has fled the perimeter
do you remember how we met, when the air tasted like the sea and you were heading where you swore to never return for the love you could not have, but made you choose the choices you made, then with the leakage which tasted of the ocean only wishing you were seventy not seventeen or fourteen or -teen— that at the second we never touched, the greeting we never exchanged, the lives we could not save flowed all behind the day we did not happen— but hey i know your story as if inked under my skin where your sun does not fade and your sky does no harm and the sea no more than the sea— us on different frequencies of never ending rain- behind our eyelids i saw you in all the times you existed without me— you are not alone you who did not want to be remembered but wanted only to live; we never crossed- never crossed but i found your heart in the way it tried to beat- to beat through the chaos and the voices and the shadows that were not yours, i also know of the sorry you repeatedly whispered inside and whispered out loud- then you were gone— your story your heart i found them inside my veins in all my air and bones- oh i know of the bones and even the shadows, those with no masters— i discovered you who i did not meet- and for having remembered those memories that are not mine, for having recalled you your story your pain: i am sorry
You know I never really understood
Why they wear their pants that way
Pull them down to their knees
And walk around all day
But they say this is the fashion
It's a new trend I should try
That underwear is very cool
And catches peoples eyes
So I decided I should try this
I pulled my pants down way too far
Then to show the world how hip I was
I walked through Central Park
All the children were excited
I saw them point my way
They even told their teacher
She made them look the other way
Well then two cop's they came running
I assumed to see my style
I thought my trend was catching on
But the cop's they didn't smile
Those cops they'd start a new trend
One I didnt like as much
They put my hands behind my back
And slapped on silver cuffs
Now this jail cell seems so small
With this big man next to me
He says he'll be my best friend
And that he likes just what he sees
So glad to see the courtroom
Filled with people from the streets
They yell, rethink your fashion trend
If you're wearing a G-String
Now the judge he was not happy
But he did not give me time
He said wear a G-String where you want
No one can take that right
You see the Judge he wore a G-String
Underneath his long black robe
He did not find me guilty
A free man I could go
So I walked outside of the courtroom
As a free man once again
And became so very famous
For my new found Fashion Trend
Carl Joseph Roberts
Polish off your vodka
Where are my friends?
Its so hot in here
Three more shots
Makeout with a random guy
Ooo, there's wine
Throwing up in the sink
Friend is on the toilet peeing for the sixth time in the past hour
Compliment me or I'll complain
Grind on what appears to be a hot guy
Climb to the roof
There's a couch
He's too drunk to get hard
What are fingers for?
Someone comes up
Your caught in the act
He wants to take you home
You don't want to go home
Meet his friends
Take better shower
Go to class
Wait until next weekend.
Tell me when.
That's a common enough phrase.
Is this enough dressing?
Tell me when.
Is this enough to drink?
Tell me when.
it's never used when we really need it.
Is this enough pain?
Tell me when.
Can you handle more sorrow?
Tell me when.
Is your plate full of enough worries?
Tell me when.
You want to be happy for a few days?
Then tell me when to end the pain.
You want your heart to soften?
Tell me when to stop hardening it.
You want to be free?
Tell me when to start trusting you.
You want to grow up?
Tell me when to let you make your own mistakes.
Tell me when you've had enough.
Please, please tell me when your back is about to break.
I'm asking you to tell me when your arms are too heavy
with the burdens that keep being laid on top of your bruised and broken skin.
Tell me when and I'll give you back your childlike hope.
Tell me when and I'll let it be okay.
I'll find a girl who will want me the way I want her
she'll be able to tell me all of her secrets and bury them in my skin
we'll be happy, happiest we've ever been
she'll tell me how she feels about me and keep telling me everyday
she and I will create a future together
We'll promise for worse or better
I'll be good enough for her
She'll be standing next to me when all my dreams come true
She will happily, easily, meaningfully say I love you
But no one told me
As it always is
no one told me...
It's never comes, okay?
A Self Portrait
I Stayed Honest
“I am a creature of grief and dust and bitter longings.”
-George R.R. Martin
I’m the explosion and throwing things when I fight with my mom about money or what is or is not appropriate to bring up in front of her parents.
“You’re not the only who misses him!” Screaming was the only way to get through to my mother when my dad was deployed. It was like she entered this other world that was nearly impossible to pierce, even by the people who needed her most—her three children. She was a strong woman when she left the house, but being in her living room without her best friend, sleeping every night without her husband, it took a toll on her as a human. When my dad was gone there was no music allowed in the house, because it made her cry; same with movies and TV, even board games. Joy of that nature had to be hidden away in our bedrooms. Having friends over was almost always out of the question. That held true even when my dad was home, because he finally was, it was ridiculous to want to interrupt the little time we had with him. I remember distinctly a night toward the end of my freshman year of high school. My mother, two sisters and I were sitting in the living room talking. As it often did, the conversation turned to my dad. Mom’s eyes started getting watery; she talked about how difficult things were with him being gone, and with money being tight because of the move and the new house and school uniforms and supplies and Amber starting college. I’m still not sure why I was so upset by it, her concerns were legitimate. Maybe I was angry that she was telling us this in the first place. I was fifteen, I wanted to worry about military ball and boys and school, not having to eat stir fry and beans and rice for the next seven months because it was the only thing we could afford. I didn’t want to consider the hours Amber worked at Johnny’s or the pizzas she purposely messed up so she could take them home to feed us. I threw down the pillow I’d been clutching and yelled viciously through my sobs the only thing that made sense at the time, “Would you just shut up?! You’re not the only one that misses him you know!” I didn’t take the time to look at their faces, I just went to my room, locked the door, and laid face down in my bed to cry. She came by later, knocked, but let herself in with a barbecue skewer. I think she apologized the way a parent always does when a child lashes out wrongly, but with understandable or even pitiable emotion.
A few years ago I realized my sexuality was not what my parents considered normal. I never really told them, figured I’d just leave it be until I started a serious relationship with a girl. Then, a few weeks ago, I was telling my mom a story about how my (female) best friend and I pretend to be dating to ward off annoyingly persistent boys.
My mother warned me, “You should be careful Emily; people are going to think wrongly of you.”
I was taken aback, “Mom, you know I don’t care what people think about me right? And… what’s wrong with dating a girl?”
She sighed. She knows I’m a huge advocate for equal rights, “Not everyone is as liberal as you are Emily. People aren’t always kind and accepting. I’d hate for them to think you were something you’re not and do something.”
I wanted to lose my mind. “Mom… you know I’m not straight right?” The silence on the other end was deafening.
She said something about her phone beeping and not hearing what I had said. I repeated myself. “You know I’m not straight right?”
“What are you then?” She asked, confused. I’d been with guys all through high school.
“Well, I identify mostly with pansexuality. It means I’m gender blind, I experience attraction based on looks, intelligence, whether a person makes me laugh or not as opposed to being limited to one gender.”
“So you’re bi?” She asked.
I recited my well rehearsed explanation. “No. I’m pan. Bi means two, pan means all. There are more than two genders.”
My dad said something in the background and my mother responded, “Oh just the fact that your daughter likes boys and girls.”
I remember putting my head in my hands at this point, just silently waiting for her to say something to me so I could end the conversation.
“Emily, could you just not bring this up ever again, especially in front of my parents?”
I’m the falling for someone who seems to want me too, when I’m already committed to another.
The distance between the Francis townhouses and the rest of campus may not seem like much, but combined with the distance between a second year undergrad and a graduate student, a long distance relationship of sorts is created. Said grad student may be absolutely perfect in every way you’ve thought of, but if he cannot grant you the attention during the week that a new relationship requires, you start to feel like a booty call. Before you clarify your exclusivity, you flirt like mad with the people who can grant you the attention you seek, because what’s the harm? But, even after you clarify if, you flirt like mad with those around you because, how will he ever find out and it’s not like you’re actually doing anything? You’re just trying to get the attention you require as a needy human being, that’s not a sin. But… another person comes along and they’re wonderful. They’re just as fantastic and understanding as the grad student, except they’re a senior and their townhouse is open to you during the week and the attention they give you is innocent but overflowing. What more could you want? When you start falling for the senior… what can you say to the grad student? Then, when the attention from the senior grows less innocent and you think less and less of the grad student when the senior is looking at you from across the table or helping you with your poetry, you realize you and the grad student were doomed from the start. Are you a terrible person? You tell your roommate you are every single week night you come home from “harmless” cuddling with the senior and every single weekend morning you come home from snogging the grad student. She tells you you’re just human.
I’m the two ales, three shots and half a bottle of wine later, declaring my love and sobbing about my past into a shoulder.
This past midterm break was the most story-book-like episode I’ve ever lived. I had met someone almost exactly a month before. Everything about him was perfect. We got along so freakishly well and were compatible in every way we had had time to discover. He was fiercely passionate and book smart, he cared about what I had to say. He was everything I’d been looking for in a companion. All his housemates were leaving for break, but he and I were staying. We spent the weekend in a hundred cliché romantic ways. We walked the river trail holding hands and talking about our lives, sat on benches cuddling and listening to the wind and the ducks. We stayed up all night watching movies and kissing. We also did a lot of not so cliché, but romantic things like eating pizza and watching cartoons naked. We ordered AJ’s and ate while drinking ales then finished the last few shots of someone’s liquor and then, because I had mentioned never having it before, he let me drink nearly an entire bottle of wine. We ended up on his couch, cuddling, but then I started talking. The alcohol had stolen my ability to shut up. I kept going on about my freshman year here at Bonas, about how terrible it was, how depressed I was, how many times I tried to off myself, and how I have a history of self harm. I started sobbing, he cried too, shared his secrets. Then I told him not to worry because he was loved, he said, “I love you too.” I had only meant it in a way like, God loves you, your parents, your friends, but I went with it. Why not?
I’m the stillness of not knowing what to do next.
This past weekend was the strangest I’ve ever lived. A boy at school, in my year, went missing Saturday morning after midnight. Found dead Sunday evening. The explosions death drops in our world have never landed so close to me before. I feel shell shocked. I wrote about it. I want to keep writing about it, but I feel like I’m not allowed to, like it isn’t my place. I don’t know. I’m sick with what I can only guess is grief, but it feels more like a poisonous concoction of many painful things locked in my intestines. I’m heavy with the news of him. I feel like I’m going to sink away at any minute. Everything feels like needles in the wound. The snow and the cold (loved parts of this time of year) make me wonder why he didn’t wear more than a sweatshirt, but how do I know if it would have mattered? I was out that night, well morning, Saturday, before two a.m. I was on the exact opposite side of campus though. We were walking to Walmart; I was beyond drunk and so elated. We rolled down the hill with the ST. BONAVENTURE bushes, got ourselves covered in mud. We sat at the bottom and laughed and laughed. We walked and discussed sex and books and plans for when we got back to campus within the hour. …He never made it back. And I wonder if he had plans. I wonder if his girlfriend had stayed in that night, if she was waiting for his return so they could screw, or cuddle, I didn’t know him, at least not well enough to know that. I wonder if he liked the cold and that’s why he was in a place where people couldn’t see him. The snow didn’t start until much later so others returning from parties would have seen if he was closer. Or maybe they did, maybe they thought nothing of a passed out drunk guy, isn’t that a normal thing in college? Maybe their veins were tricked warm from their strong drinks and they couldn’t imagine he was cold, they didn’t feel it, and there wasn’t even snow on the ground. Not yet. Maybe they thought it would be funny if he woke up outside. Or maybe the rumors are true. Maybe there was a fight earlier that night. Maybe he wasn’t even that drunk. Maybe some boy-men, foolishly angry, were trying to prove their false superiority. Maybe they didn’t know they’d hurt him so bad and that someone else would come along to help him. How can we ever know? I see nothing when I close my eyes except his. Looking, but not alive, his lids frozen open, his lips slightly parted, the cold paling his skin, fashioning him to look more ghost than human. I suffer in the fear that he died knowing he was going to, knowing he was alone. How afraid he must have been. How could he have known what was coming next? How can we go on living knowing his life was meaninglessly extinguished? He was undeserving of an end so lonely. I’m haunted by the image of him being trapped in that loneliness forever. I’m haunted by his face, he always seemed so happy, but don’t the dead always seem more shiny in our memories? Will he be remembered fairly or only as a good who died young? And the guilt of feeling that hurts me, eats at me, but the doubts are trying to kill me. What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to feel about this? I hardly knew him, am I allowed to feel so blindsided? Is this allowed to send me into the tailspin I feel I’m already lost in? If I fall back into the bad habits because of the weight of what’s in my head will anyone understand or will they shame me for “wanting attention?” If I cry often, because I will think of this often, will anyone be there to comfort me? Is it selfish to ask for these things? Is it wrong to have partied Friday and Saturday because I didn’t know Sunday would pack such a punch? Is it valid to be distraught by the death of someone less than even an acquaintance? It’s just that… he was nineteen.
Assignment: Six page self portrait.
Back to me
I leave my shadow behind
Tears washing Alaska away
Looking out the window
I love to say goodbye
Back to me
Will you want my love
Will you want my forgiveness
I know you have a good heart inside
But I will never again trust you with mine
Back to me
I feel a loss on the way
In the back of my mind
Caution it says
Someone close is about to transcend
Back to me
So many can only ever face ahead
Lives full of fluff
They choose to be
Zombies floating in the sea
Back to me
On this familiar ground I am whole
Roots start spreading back beneath
Back to me
I sing again
No longer trapped on an island in a cage
A parakeet free to spread her yellow wings
Back to me
I missed you
Safe again just to be