Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
I met a genius on the train
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.

it was the first time I'd
How do you think it feels,
To have no friends in school?
It’s a feeling that to very few appeals,
Yet here I am, caught because I’m not “cool”.

The others, oh they laugh, at their tables with their friends,
While I move from seat to seat,
Listening to the laughter that never ends,
Being ignored as I sit and eat.

It is not because I am all too shy,
Or have no wish to talk.
Quite honestly, I don’t know why,
They all ignore me as we walk.

I know it’s not because I’m mean,
As I’ve had many friends before.
Maybe it’s that I’m not interested in their scene,
Or maybe it’s just my eyes are far too interested in the floor.

On the rare winter day,
I’m sitting at lunch with my class,
My eyes from my book occasionally will stray,
But only long enough to roll my eyes at some boy’s comment on passing gas.

Then the other days that I do sit,
With the grade above us,
I notice that even there I don’t fit,
Surrounded by talk of the boys on the bus.

Sometimes when I sit with them,
I try to get a word in.
But because of their constant blabbing, to silence I’m condemned,
Tapping my fingers on my shin.

As the school year goes on and on,
I try less and less to talk.
Until the year is almost gone,
And the one last attempt I make makes them gawk.

I stand by the microwave, cold pizza on my plate laying flat,
When one boy comes up and asks,
“What is that?”
I stare at him for a moment as others go on with their tasks.

Finally I respond sarcastically,
“It’s meatloaf. No, it’s pizza. Haven’t you seen it before?”
Though I think I see a tiny smile, he looks at me as if I’d done something drastically,
And just stares at me oddly while opening the microwave door.

I smile a little, thinking of how,
At my old school those words would be normal for me.
But I cannot say things like that now,
As I am not in words or deeds free.

I cannot joke without a funny look,
Or complain about math without a stare.
Because now I am expected to only read my book,
And my smile is supposedly rare.

As he leaves to go back to his table,
Without another word to me,
I think of how I’m now not able,
Truly to be free.

And then I decide from this day forward,
I will just stop trying,
To show I’m not just some nerd,
Who is perpetually sighing.

In the school I shall live in a world of quiet,
Never really showing them my true self.
While my classmates have a riot,
I will be as silent as a doll on a shelf.
.It's 4 a.m.A hotelbibleisspreading thegood newsto a local wino,as ***** childrenof intimatestrangers areplaying X Boxwith addicts.A young girlis learning toinhaleup on thegravel rooftop,scribing poetryon her armin the sparsemoonlight.Razor writingis sucha wasteof type O..
 Feb 2010 Jackie McMahon
I wish I could leave this world
in a blur of beauty:
red paint like blood
slashed across a canvas
white as porcelain skin.
There is something
in the terror of pure destruction
that appeals to me.
The scene of my suicide
will be my masterpiece,
a parting gift to the world
that gave me too little,
a chance to make things right.
Everything will be right
in the end
because I will see
the beauty.
If I am fine
Then why I am here?
Strung up on
The line of my fear
Endless reasons
Not to breathe
I always endure
The pythons squeeze

If I am alright
Then why am I here?
Passed out on the
Broken pier
The pyre angels
Sing for me
Broken, sleeping
Sometimes they scream

Perhaps I am twisted
Though why am I kind?
You say I am poison
A poisonous mind
A toxic concoction
Some wretched possession
Foul smelling, rotten
An echoing question

I think I am faulty
A smoking explosion
Though carefully sculpted
By acid corroded
A tremulous wreck
Dancing on sand
Can’t gain my footing
I choke on the plan
Copyright © Kelsey Williams 2010. No reproduction, distribution or unauthorized usage permitted without express permission.
Looking deeply into pieces of what I was.
Perusing the mosaic of images
That linger in my eyes.
Shards of all shapes an sizes

Moments holding steadfast
So vivid, rich and rank.

This is no wading pool
The depth is great
And the capacity is only fathomed.

It all pulses, sparks, chokes and spits.

There is no hemorrhage
This is all fine
Make assertions
Pound them deep into reality.

Each strike resounds
Like a blacksmith in a cave
Molding shifting

Flames that had once receded
Deep into the pit of a forgotten temple.
Stoked sudden & silently by a mere shift of its outer mask
Breathing new life/light
into hallowed grounds.

— The End —