Kite - Hello Poetry

Kite Sep 2013

I read a story about a clown
who ran away from the circus.
I thought it was odd;
people usually run away to join the circus, not try to escape it.
The clown packed herself into a suitcase and threw herself out to sea, cursing her painted face and huge shoes.

I read a story about a boy who floats;
he couldn't stay grounded.
He was abandoned, but when he had the chance to be cured and reunited with the family that threw him out, he decided to float away and stay the same.

I am trying to learn something from these stories.
In which a clown runs away from what society wants her to be and a boy floats above what people think of him.

I wrote a poem about it all, because I wasn't sure what else to do.

The first story was "Mr.Melancholy", the second was "The terrible thing that happened to Barnaby Brockett".

Kite Sep 2013

Sorry.

I can't wash this off my hands
This guilt,
It is smeared all over my skin
And every time I wipe it off, it grows bigger.
I feel *****,
Like I am walking around in unclean clothes.
I have drowned my hands in water
Trying to cleanse,
I guess it's too late,
sorry.

Kite Jun 2013

The calves

The day the calves arrived was my favourite. We put them in our shed full of straw. They were skinny and looked unbalanced on top of their long, bony legs. They smelt like a dry room in winter, of vanilla cake and damp straw and droppings. The other kids retched, but I didn't mind.

I came in early every morning to feed the calves. I measured them and mixed water into powdered milk. They fought fiestily over the feeder, nudging each other crudely to secure the last few drops of milk. I put my hands out to calm them, and they latched onto my fingers with their mouthes, thrusting with their tongues, desperate for the milk I had spilt on my hands. The other kids retched, but I didn't mind.

I groomed them and let them drag me around the oval when I took them for a run.
Although I could barely keep up with their childlike bounding, I felt exhilarated and could not stop laughing. At the end of the day I'd lead them back to the shed and play with them. I took a pitch fork and scooped up the soiled straw for the compost and replaced it with clean straw. Of course, the smell wasn't pretty. The other kids retched, but I didn't mind.

On the weekend we met outside the sheds in our overalls and boots. It was cold and early, and the teacher was late. The other kids moaned about having to be there just to get "a stupid grade". I didn't care about the grades. I would have loved to have slept in, but I didn't mind.

The teacher finally arrived and put on her suit. She unlocked the shed and we were engulfed with the warmth and soft yellow light, the air scented by the sweet vanilla-like aroma from the powdered milk. I walked over to bid the calves good morning. One was nuzzling at the face of the other.

She was dead.

Natural causes apparently. I retched, but the other kids didn't mind.

At our school, if you do environment science, you get to look after three calves for a few weeks. I loved it, but the others thought it was "gross". In the other class, when one of the girls came in on the weekend to feed them, one was dead, and no one knows why.

As to the vanilla references- the powdered milk smelt like vanilla custard; it was wonderful.

Kite Jun 2013

Do you think I'm pretty?

"Do you think I'm pretty?" she asked him in the park.
"I do" he replied as they built a castle out of sticks.
They were both pretty young, and hadn't a clue.

"Do you think I'm pretty?" she asked him on her way to school.
"I think you're nice" he replied as they climbed over the gate.
They were both just kids, and didn't have a clue.

"Do you think I'm pretty?" she asked him on the way to calculus class.
"I think you're pretty...
ugly,
fat and
slutty" he replied as his friends sniggered.
They were both growing up.

"Do you think I'm pretty?" she asked the ***** mirror in the girl's bathroom that same day.
"I think you're pretty worthless" her reflection replied as she short herself in the head.

Not a true story or anything, just some brain spew.

Kite Jun 2013

Now; did it mean nothing?

When we were together, I felt invincible. It was like we were in our own world, where it was okay for us to hold hands, and lie together and just stare while your music was playing. We would hide when others came in to interrupt us, we couldn't let them know what we had.

But now, now I'm just confused. Did it mean nothing? Do you do that with everyone? Was it just because we were both lonely in a foreign land and nothing more? I have known you since I was a child, but I have never known you as I did before.

And now, because of that, the only way I can fall asleep is by imagining you are next to me like you were back then. When I can't, I lie awake and reminisce about how we played as children, and try to feel your soft fingers interlaced with my own, but you're not there.

Now we have gone back to our real lives, back to school and study, back to our friends.
Back, separated only by streets, but barely speaking.

A semi-sweet rant compiled of thoughts and memories.

Kite May 2013

Our sand

Take me to the beach and tackle me in the waves,
kiss the salt on my skin, brush my bruises.
Bury my feet in sun soaked grains and hold me.
Teach me to surf, teach me to stand.
Run away from the cool reforming sea froth with me.
Quick, it's gonna get us!
Collect the shells and hide them with me.
Help me dig to China.

Build me a sandcastle, with a toothpick and seaweed flag.
Name it after me, let me live there with you.
Let it be surrounded by a moat dug into the sand with your palm so deep that murky water appears. Trace designs on the walls.
Add sea shells for decoration.
Protect it from the incoming tide by building walls of the dark sand you collect from closest to the water, we both know that it's the strongest sand on the beach.
Let's not give up our fight, we will keep building walls around this castle.
We can't let the tide take it, it is our place.
The sun will be getting lower, and the sea more violent.
It will try to break us, but we will dig our fingernails so deep into the mud resembling sand, continuing to slop it on top of our failing barricade to protect our castle.
This is our sand. Determination and desperation on our faces, we will try to push the ever nearing water away.
The waves will become too much and our hands will be cut from grazing shells and our skin will be wrinkled from the water.
As the destruction crashes in and takes our castle, our sand,

carry me with you.

Kite Mar 2013

Late at night or in the ungodly hours of the morning

Late at night or in the ungodly desolate hours of the morning, the writers come out to play. The insomniacs stop staring at the ceiling, and the depressed dry their eyes.

Late at night or in the ungodly desolate hours of the morning, we write away our happiness, our joy our sorrows, our pain and our emptiness. We write away our illnesses, briefly taking back our voices from them.

Late at night or in the ungodly hours of the morning, us sleep deprived lot fill pages upon pages with our words. Some burn them, some keep them, but we all write them. We are the closest we are ever to be to feeling alive.

Then we go back, back to being tired or sad, back to being heartbroken or empty.

Late at night or in the ungodly hours of the morning, the writers come out to play.