I remember it now
Coming back to me after a small lifetime of years.
In the schoolyard after class.
A sparkle in the corner of my eye,
A broken bottle
A shard of glass
I picked it up
Will anybody notice?
Will anybody see?
Jealous of a classmates bandage
Their war wound, scarred while living life
Squeezing the glass until it breaks the skin
Red red red
Blood blooming blossoming so beautiful
But it hurts so bad.
Why was I jealous of blood?
I have more now anyway,
My own scar from living life.
came to me last night
What the **** is going on?
I really don’t know anymore...
Sometimes you can erase your life
Easy as tearing up old pages from a diary.
At first it might resist, but it eventually tears
Suddenly you’re free.
Hidden from yourself, once again
Easy as that and thrown away
Discarded into the bin.
You didn’t want anyone to see it.
To see you.
And now they won’t.
Later, you may think about those pages
Scenes from your life now lost
Thrown into the ******* trash
Like they didn’t matter.
You wonder what was on them
Were they really that bad?
Did you need to throw yourself away?
But you’re gone now, only vaguely remembered years past.
Why did you do that?
Why were you so afraid,
Why did you hate you so much
Why were those thick bundles of desperately blacked-out words
So wrong and so easy to throw out?
Taken out on trash day
Never to be seen again.
Maybe it was easy to throw away
But never easy to remember
Maybe it was hard to rip up
To tear your memories from your head
Took all your strength, your force, your everything.
But was it?
Shouldn’t it be harder to throw yourself away?
Something I wrote this morning
It is time to do something
I am ready to begin
My life is not a race
It is a slow and lovely stroll
I can do this now
I know I can
I am ready to take the keys
I am ready to take the wheel.
Every day I see this guy pass by my door,
he never steps off the path.
His hair speaks of his woe.
His steel eyes arrange the sky into a box,
the blue is not enough to keep him idle,
he requires the chains of logic.
It keeps him grounded when he could be flying.
“Why should I fly,” he says,
“It’s much too cold for me anyway.”
“Wear a jacket” I might declare.
He would reply, “I don’t wish to sweat through
my sensible clothes.”
(Only twenty dollars on sale.)
He is much too sensible to be any fun,
but fun is not all there is.
“There is science” he would suggest
If we ever were to talk,
I know he would be an excellent conversationalist
His dusty shoes tell of his wariness,
His jacket of his adventures.
(He keeps dust on his clothes to speak for his cleverness.)
“Conversation is for the simple-minded,” he would say.
“I prefer books,” would be my reply.
He would have nothing to say then,
(He doesn’t like conversation anyway.)
but he’d be too logical to let me know
Of his human blunder and illogical flash.
So he spoke to me of his action figure collection.
(“Most extensive, I’m sure”)