The Human Being never existed.
The Human Being is a complex computer program.
The Human Being is actually a Martian in disguise.
The Human Being is a lie, a hoax.
The government is covering it up,
Lying to us,
Protecting us.
Regardless, the Human Being never existed.
It crash landed on Tri-Alpha 1,
One of three nearby planetoids,
And stumbled out of its metal box,
All pink and yellow and brown,
Just like the cartoons said.
When asked for comment it claimed Tri-Alpha 1 for Earth
And for the Human Beings
And said it would nuke any who got in its way.
This could have been quite strange and scary,
Except that the Trians had never heard of Earth
Or nukes, which on Tri-Alpha is a type of sugary breakfast oatmeal,
But they had heard of the Human Being,
And everyone knows the Human Being never existed.
The Republican-Whig-Beebop-Triphop Conglomerate that is the Trian Government,
Quickly put it down to a drama student who’d had too much Sensurian ale.
The Human Being never existed.
Except, of course, it had.
Far within the confines of the Beebop Science Department,
The hairy creature was poked and prodded and pickled and preserved.
The Human Being never existed on Tri-Alpha 1,
But Jarred Hyuemahn is coming soon to an express shopway near you.
Jul 7, 2012
Jul 7, 2012 at 9:47 PM UTC
Finals, studying, cramming.
My hand scratches more and more notes into the tiny margins of the page.
The clock turns to 1 AM, but I’m not done. I have to pass. I have to stay awake-
The alarm blares out 6:30.
Shower, get dressed, make myself somewhat presentable.
All in machine-like precision.
Period 2, my sweaty palms are wiped against my skirt, my leg shakes beneath the table.
Textbook passages flit across my mind as I stare at the first question.
And then it happens. I know the answer to the first problem. And to the second. And to the third.
I smile. It is the last day before a much-needed summer break.
Sign yearbook, pose for picture, repeat.
Life is good.
One day into break my mom comes past my room while on the phone. “We’ll see you in a week. Yeah, the girls really excited too.”
Confusion, then annoyance, then anger.
She forgot to tell me we’re going to see my grandparents. Again.
I later try to explain that we’re already seeing them for two weeks in August. Why go now?
She felt pressured, coerced, intimidated by my grandparents.
Don’t give in to peer pressure, Mother.
Summer continues.
Cousins, aunts, and uncles to see.
No time for friends or social interaction other than small talk and forced smiles.
I complain.
My sister calls me pathetic, mean, and selfish for wanting any time to myself.
I walk away.
Later, I turn to my mom. “Please can be go home?”
“Don’t be rude, sweetheart.
“Besides, we’ve got places to go and people to see.”
I really wanted to take some summer classes, get ahead in my education.
To my family, the concept is unknown, foreign, and queer.
It’s better I sit and not talk.
One week later, I beg my mom to take us home.
“Honey, they’re your family. You should be closer to them.
“Besides, we’ve got places to go and people to see.”
The summer continues much the same way.
I smile, I laugh, I nod at all the right times.
But inside I am miserable. I would much rather be at home reading by the creek.
And now that I am home I must bid you adieu,
For I have places to go and people to see.
Jun 3, 2010
Jun 3, 2010 at 8:58 PM UTC
Left, right,
straight, left,
right, left.
All are ways to go, but which is the way?
Running up and down among the maze,
constantly looking for a way out.
I will not find one,
that I know,
but still I look, frantically seeking an exit.
Right, left,
right, straight,
left, right.
I’m back to where started,
no closer to finding an answer than in the beginning.
I begin to panic,
the walls seem to be caving in on me.
I push against them,
I pound I scream,
but still they move,
threatening to forever keep me between their cool, impersonal solid forms.
But the walls stop only seconds before I am trapped forever,
and they separate.
I take a moment to catch my breath,
and they appear,
many reflections of myself,
all eager to share their differing opinions.
Left!
No, right!
Take that way!
Take the other way!
But I cannot move,
frozen in time and mind,
decisions weighing down upon my soul.
Who do I listen to?
Who is my foe?
Who is my friend?
I clasp my hands to my ears,
but their deafening cries do not cease.
I scream, I yell, I try to thrash at them,
but they only laugh at my efforts.
Finally I give up, I’m done,
and only then am I free to move.
I slump down against a wall,
defeated in every way.
And then the most miraculous thing happens:
silence descends around me.
I look up to see them smile as one,
and disappear into the milky late of the maze.
Confused and cautious, I stand up,
wondering what will be thrown at me now.
But I hear nothing,
not a sound.
No walls move,
no reflections appear,
and all is still.
I hesitantly put one foot in front of the other,
and only now,
with my mind clear and my thoughts calm,
do I successfully navigate the maze.
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 4:36 PM UTC
A young child hands his struggling teacher the pen she was reaching for.
A sister gives her stressed brother quiet time when he is reviewing for a big exam.
A little girl whose parents are getting a divorce offers the bed she’s slept in since she became a “big girl” to her exhausted father.
All of these are acts of kindness,
of generosity,
whether small or major,
more likely than not to go unacknowledged.
They represent the good in people,
while they are still young and innocent in heart,
years before they may be corrupted by this ever-changing world.
In the eyes of a child they are nothing,
simply the right thing to do,
and to the eyes of many they are every-day occurrences,
but to me they are miracles.
Small miracles, perhaps, but miracles nonetheless.
In a world full of hate and darkness,
full of pain and sadness,
I believe any small action or thought of joy and selflessness
even without knowing it,
is to be rejoiced.
And sometimes it is,
not with great celebration or fanfare of course,
but will a small, knowing smile teasing at the corner of a mouth,
threatening to get loose.
But more often than not,
these small acts of kindness go unnoticed,
doomed to forever haunt the backs of minds and memories,
always lurking beneath the surface of your conscience.
But time goes on.
And the world will go on forgetting these little acts of generosity,
as children grow up,
and leave forever behind the world of Never Never Land.
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 2:28 PM UTC
To write is to breathe.
It is part of who I am,
essential for me to live.
Words bend to my will,
and I bend to theirs.
The pen is my sword,
and the paper my shield.
It shields my thoughts, my pain, my joy,
and never will you penetrate that shield.
Your words can never hurt me,
but mine can hurt you.
For you see my words are immortal,
destined to live forever, even long after their master is gone,
and can cause you more pain than you could ever know.
But your words, no they shall not last,
your mocking will last only a fleeting moment,
your laughs and jeers a second in the master map of time.
You and I will die, oh yes,
our bodies will decay beneath the ground,
but part of me will be forever immortal.
Can you say the same?
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 2:09 PM UTC
Old leaves fly,
rattling together like bones of the dead.
The wind whispers to us,
the past, the present, the future,
but no matter how hard we strain,
we cannot hear.
The bare trees wave with the whispers,
their leaves flying, always flying,
never to return to the soft comfort of their mother branches.
The flowers die,
wilting away into nothingness,
their spring songs of youth and prosperity silenced.
The sun sets,
promising not to return for many moons,
leaving us in perpetual darkness.
The birds leave,
their cries echoing in the empty world,
“Gone is the world we know and love,
new adventures do we seek!”
And all we have left,
is the old leaves,
rattling together like bones of the dead.
Mar 20, 2010
Mar 20, 2010 at 2:56 PM UTC
A worthier opponent I had never met.
He slowly advanced.
I held my ground.
We started each other down,
each trying to guess the other’s next move.
He suddenly feinted right,
but I pushed him back.
All time had stopped.
Was he alright? Had I gone too far?
He slowly pushed himself back up,
and I could breathe again.
He stared.
I stared.
He stared.
I stared.
The world was at a stand-still.
But then it happened.
He rushed forward, trying to catch me be surprise.
And he didn’t stop, as he had previously.
I grabbed at a nearby weapon,
a stick larger than my opponent.
I swung with all I could.
He was lifted up into the air and carried many yards away.
And…
…He was no more.
Farewell, Mr. Bug,
you were a worthy opponent.
Mar 18, 2010
Mar 18, 2010 at 4:09 PM UTC
It is grey.
For miles and miles,
we see nothing but grey.
Grey is the color of the sky.
Grey is the color clouding everyone’s minds.
Grey be the condition of everyone’s hearts.
The months may come and go,
and people look in vain for the end of grey,
but still it reigns supreme in the heavens.
Bleak and desolate,
it stays on,
for months and months to come.
But what it this?
A patch of blue?
Could it be possible?
Hope screams for release,
in the hearts and souls of thousands,
and in some it succeeds.
But most are wary.
The grey has reigned for so long,
that blue seems but a distant dream.
And the patch widens,
‘til it covers all,
and the sun returns to the heavens.
Hope is reinstated.
Winter is gone,
and spring runs rampant.
Mar 5, 2010
Mar 5, 2010 at 1:30 PM UTC
He fell down a rabbit hole,
chasing after a crazy dream
He met a rabbit with a waistcoat.
He braved the Red Queen.
He had tea with a caterpillar.
He spoke with talking flowers.
He faced his worst nightmares,
and he lived to tell the tale.
And eventually he crawled back out,
ready to face the world.
But no one believed him.
The more he told,
the more he was scorned.
And he drew farther and farther into himself,
comforting himself with stories and talking flowers,
and a rabbit in a waistcoat.
Soon that was all he had left,
stories and fantasies.
Until one day he plunged back through the rabbit hole,
grasping for a crazy dream.
There he learned the trade of making hats,
but he soon surpassed his masters and peers.
Once again he was scorned,
and he relocated to an old house with two other outcasts,
making hats and drinking tea to fill his time.
He retreated into himself once again,
this time literally becoming as mad as a hatter,
and this became his title.
And soon no one remembered his true name,
knowing only that was mad,
until his title became his name: the Mad Hatter.
Only one ever tried to know why he was mad,
and her name was Alice.
And in her presence,
he found himself, though still quite mad, less mad.
He even found that he liked it,
though he never let his other mad companions know that.
But she, too, fell back through the rabbit hole,
and he was alone,
with only fantasies and madmen to keep him company.
Until one day many years later he found a woman, wandering,
mumbling about talking flowers and rabbits with waistcoats,
almost as mad as himself.
And her name, he found, was Alice,
and in each other’s presence they found, though they were still quite mad,
they were decidedly less so.
And they found they liked it.
Mar 5, 2010
Mar 5, 2010 at 1:19 PM UTC
You call me a freak?
You, who has no real friends?
You, who has only followers?
You, who intimidates instead of being friendly?
You call me a freak?
You, who has never studied a day in your life?
You, who reads on a fifth grade level?
You, who is failing all of your classes?
You call me a freak?
You, who calls yourself fat when you’re clearly underweight?
You, who is afraid to eat?
You, who is all stick and bones?
You call me a freak?
You, who wears outrageous, “fashionable” clothes?
You, who wears four-inch heels to gym class?
You, who wears enough hairspray to make your air look like plastic?
Yet you still have the nerve to call me a freak?
You, who smiles confidently when I don’t respond?
You, who widens your eyes when I smile back?
You, who stares speechless when I roll my eyes and walk away?
You, who can’t comprehend why I don’t run away in tears?
You, who doesn’t know why I just walked away?
You, who can’t figure out my true thoughts on you?
I pity you.
I pity you for your fake friends.
I pity you for your future.
But most all, I pity you for the fact that you have to put others down to make yourself feel good.
Feb 18, 2010
Feb 18, 2010 at 5:15 PM UTC