~for you~*

~~~

when I put
twosome of twisted lips together,
long dragging one foot clubbed,
agony before the other,
but one hand obeys commands,
the other disdains, ignores,
one only eye-seeing, vision impaired,

and the body laughs at the notion of
paired coordinates

tongue disobeys desires,
limping thru life's everything,
thoughts locked down on pause,
mid-think is a cassette tape
in a seven-second delayed,
a fist cannot be unbroken, unwound

chorus of mockers,
herd of haters
rejoice in my diminution,
using my weakness for ammunition

for I am a stutterer,

just another you,

misstepping, fracturing,
the minutes of a life disastered,
suffered, sadly, no gladly hanging about

but I do not forsake hope

repair each word with the honor
of a slow enunciation distinguished,
ungainly shaped, yet soldier-motion forward,
in small poems and  with one hand holding

for I am armed with certainty

as I stutter thru living,
more than awaiting, comprehending,
you, you,
understand full well,
that we are all handicapped

salvation arrives when
a touching whisper heard in one solitary ear,
you sir, you, are not alone

for who among us dare deny
*we are all stutterers

As a young child
I played and thought it would never stop
We would literally 'go wild'
With our makeshift bows and arrows, our plastic six shooters, and our macho cowboy hats we'd throw on just to top...
It off
Yes they were 'war games', but they brought us together
Although as expected, one or two of us would at some point get ticked off
By one thing or another
But we stayed childishly united
The stutterer, the other kid with asthma... and the orphan, that kid without a mother
Played side by side, like sisters and brothers
You just joined in, no need to be invited
This was innocence, the only guilt you felt was knowing you were two hours passed your curfew
Or maybe because earlier you had showered yourself with your aunt's perfume
Sometimes I wish we could go back to that innocence
Replay that last tune, on the harp of joy
They keep telling me life is not a game anymore
I'm like 'as long as it makes me smile, I will keep this toy'.

when I walk, always a body beside me
when I talk always someone ahead of me
when I listen there is always and only me

What the **** kind of artist am I? I say I'm a poet, but you wouldn't know it if you saw me through my eyes. My whole existence is just a guise. I compromise my way through the day, wasting away what little talent I may possess. I'll confess that I've been impressed with some of the things I've managed to remove from my chest, but it would be in jest for me to suggest that I've ever given anyone or anything anywhere near my best.
I grieve the death of communication, but with each anxious breath my verbal constipation gets gridlocked, words backing up and choking out, leaving me a broken stutterer, muttering to myself that I'm a stupid schmuck, a ******* out of luck, wasting time and getting stuck, with the most frequent word in my vocabulary being ****...
I'd be a sitting duck if it weren't for my sheer stubbornness shoving this struggling mind to rise like a hawk, terrorizing the skies with my fantasized verbiage and tantalizing turbulence. NO one else has a plane of thought that swerves like this, and when I crash land, I trudge across the tumultuous terrain to prove my worth to myself.
I create my own living hell, my own prison cell. My heart knows I excel, but my eyes only open when I fail, which makes it hard to tell if I've gained any traction. My prison bars have cut my vision into fractions, marring my perception and staring the conception of self dissension.
I spelunk through the sunken wonders in my skull, wandering from wreck to wreck, scouring the decks for hidden sets of similes to act as seeds for my flowering dreams. My dreams always seem just out of reach, but comfortably within my sight; and although I yearn to touch, apparently seeing is good enough to keep me sedated.
I'm compensated with overrated praise from those closest to me. I have to hold boulders above my shoulders to keep my nose to the grindstone as I blindly roam through forests of undone poems, revealing themselves to me as blazing trees, jealous of the message held by their burning cousin. Dozens of roots grew though my veins, ingraining my fingers as I walked through the smoke, groping with my broken limbs, hoping for that day to come when tires swing from my bows again!
But I won't settle for being one of them-- a motionless stem, potent with potential that lies latent beneath layers of sentimental protection. I stave off being rooted by stripping my bark bare and shooting my words into the air instead. The leaves bloom and blossom inside my head, allowing me to dream in color, compounding fantasy and reality into the blurring plurality that's governing between my ears.
My horizons delight my eyes with sights of blinding brilliant bouquets of vibrant prisms that could make prisoners cheer.
They give me hope. Hope that one day I can cope with myself, stop blocking my path with felled trees, and just be pleased to have been Me.

The string on the kite spool is made of doll hair
Mincemeat pies
Someones trying to get my goat
It's the stutterer with a broken nose trying to read aloud

"Ch ch ch choo choo choose yo yo yo your battles"
"A a a and d d d don't le le le let any any any anyone fi fi fi ffff fight them for for for for you"

I'll give it to him, it must of taken a lot for him to muster up enough guts to do that

There was a sign the said "Canebreaks" do they mean sugarcane or a rattle snake? I'm not going to check it out both are bad for my health

Over on the other side of the park is a hot blooded swindler
He's  selling provisions
Tiny morsels of food for outrageous prices
For anyone with a dormant and insatiable appetite and no concept of money
He's bound to find someone who will take him up on his offer sooner or later

Over in the crowd I hear someone asking people to join her in a hostile take over or was it a harsh take down? Either way no one was into it
I'm not too sure she was either come to think of it, probably blowing off some smoke

Under the gazebo I see kids taking something
I guess sweaty foreheads that sheen and quavering ligaments are just modern ingredients to coming of age
But is couch lock necessary?

Now I'm face to face with my fifth grade teacher
She's got tenure now
She's barefoot and has a dour look on her face
I can feel that she's tired of the same day in day out life she lives
But I guess there's no way of knowing for sure

Oh no, someones got a gun
There is always "That Guy"

Everyone runs, scatters
Moms pick up their children and run to their cars with their husbands right behind them

The drunks stumble, bumping into one another

Only when danger is near do you see how nimble and limber people can be

The gunman scales the chain link fence and fires of a few rounds and shouts, "I DON'T GIVE A **** IF THIS DOESN'T FIT THE ALLOTTED TIME SLOT!"
"ALL OUR CUMULATIVE SCORES ARE MISGIVEN AND THOSE WHO HAVE DESECRATED OUR VOWS WILL BE OVER TURNED!"
"IT'S A RACE TO THE OTHER SIDE AND IT'S FIRST TO THE FINISH!"

He put the nose of the gun to his face and pulled the trigger
His brains dangled on the chain link fence

Why did I have to over shoot the turn and wind up at this weird *** picnic/fair/festival/bloodbath thing?

You remember what you wanted to be when you grow up?

Right now

When I grow up

I want to be a poet

Even if I am homeless and I use all my green paper

To buy myself some white paper

Just to **** it up all over again

I have muddied so many perfect things

With my ***** hands

***** thoughts

***** feelings

If I don’t etch myself away on something

How can I ever come clean?

Especially if I am homeless

I will cut these words out of me if I have to

I will soap box my heart out

From anywhere

Even if no one is listening

I don’t mind being the self talking

grungy stutterer you step into the street to walk away from

That awkward smacking is just me working the psalms

From the roof of my mouth like holy peanut butter

They are bitter and equally disgusting to the pallet as they are the ear

But the truth has a nasty taste

And beauty is always buried under layers of dirt

And I can’t wipe hard enough

I will never be approachable

I need to find at least 10 ways to say

No longer negotiable

I want to be a poet

Just some guy who

Puts ink to paper

The same way he

Puts paper to face

In order to soak the bleeding of his blemishes

If I don’t use something

To wipe away my *****

How will I ever be clean?