it’s lips poured spirits and wine - fresh squeezed- into my hands, into my system. And it walks behind me sober. Watching my slurring stumbles whilst an old sense of strength from inside me poured from my mouth, spilling on concrete.
my legs fail me and I fall a trance. Into it’s arms. But only for a sweet second - and now I’m smothered lying in stone cold slate, it’s so nippy, the cold. and it’s shadow blocks the streetlight floating above me. Wait; streetlight is glaring dim orange again now that it has dispersed away, down the pathway. With open arms, it’s searching for a sober.
an old one, August 2018 Who ism “it”?, you decide.
I say I like it. Being mad. Tried to be normal once, didn't go well. It's the answer. To all of you. Nothing helped me, Noone helped me, No support or understanding. I've gone insane and I am a better person for it. What's stopping you?
I'm not jealous. I'm not jealous that you get I love you texts from your mom for no apparent reason. or that your dad makes funny but loving tweets about you often. or that your sister is still living and breathing and thriving.
I'm not jealous. I'm not jealous that you come home to a full fridge and pantry. to a dog whose treated well but not adored more than you. to working lights and ceilings that don't look like they're gonna fall again.
I'm not jealous. I'm not jealous that your mom wants to go on a road trip to tour colleges with you. that your dad will buy you instruments and play guitar with you every night. that your sister wrote a play based on you.
I'm not jealous. I'm not jealous that you can not only afford but expect fancy sheets and blinds and rugs. that your mom will still let you crawl back into bed at night if you have a nightmare. that she'll do your laundry or dishes if you're having a bad day and she'll make you hot cocoa.
I'm not jealous. I'm not jealous that your parents don't guilt you for needing therapy. that your parents aren't ashamed to talk about you because you got a A- instead of an A. that your parents don't avoid talking about you to your friends now that you're out.
I'm not jealous. I'm not jealous that your parents take your side over your families. that you've never thought about what you would do if you got kicked out. that you don't have to plead to get your parents to call you the right name and pronouns.
I'm not jealous. I'm not jealous that you don't have to prove your worth to your parents with grades and sucess. that love is more common than shame at your house. that you aren't just the kid they had because the first one died.
I'm not jealous. I'm not jealous that you've never had to struggle with money. that you've seen your mother proud of you for something other than an eating disorder. that you aren't treated as a burden.
I'm not jealous. I swear, I'm not jealous. Its just that I would give anything to have parents who weren't jealous of other parents with "good" kids.
at least I get to move out in three years. my parents **** yayyyy.
Sought for by all, truly achieved by few. So many search for years, decades, some even their entire lifetime to find you. Despite the ever-growing search party, you’ve remained elusive as ever. The path leading to you is seemingly never straight.
The “wise” say you’re found within, but in a life of struggle that seems to prove false. After all, the happenings outside of one’s heart sway the happenings inside. No game is harder than that of life. Never is the game of life more difficult when one is dealt a bad hand. And for every king you draw, life holds an ace.
For some this bad hand is the player’s hand never holding money. Some scratch and claw living paycheck to paycheck. Struggling to evade eviction as they watch the rich pop champagne. Often times food must be forsaken for shelter, water, and lights.
For others this hand is dealt to them in youth. The eyes of a child should be filled with hope. Many of those eyes are filled with tears due to constantly being told their existence is unwanted. Sometimes their eyes instead of being filled with tears are swelled shut. Their desire to be loved never being satisfied.
Commonly, this hand is dealt by the hand of a loved one going cold. Seeing the body of one you cherished lying motionless. Even though you know you’ll see them again, the pain still lingers for a lifetime.
When given cards like these, the player seldom wins the prize of happiness.
Who is that girl? that I refuse to see staring back at me who could she possibly be? Flaws delicately pointed out but virtues waiting to be touched. Like flowers on a spring morning there's a voice inside her shouting and roaring. Drifting apart everyday and the memories don't seem to stay. She seeks for help but they just don't tell what their baby girl needs is not on sale. How much time is going to pass by? Before they realize, that it's too late, that this love that she needs just can't wait.
This is the sad song Of men and women Who create offspring When they don’t like children. They set their minds up To repeatedly bear them To avoid askance looks And any open criticism.
So they suffer and complain About what a heavy burden It is for them to have to Put up with their children. Each day with the rugrats Nets no child any praise They see not much beauty In the offspring they raise.
If a soul deprived mother Never felt love of her own She has none to spare, No patience to condone. The talk of these parents Is of not having any peace, No time of their own then, No feeling of surcease.
It’s as if a child born Has but few years to grow Before needing to be an adult Who will automatically know. That they must know to parent The sick adult needy one Who doesn’t seem to like them Or anything much they have done.
This is the sad tune of those Who made many awful choices But still have no use for any Of loving, advising voices. It’s a song too many sing; The music heart breaking, Yet few of those parents know The sense of trust they are taking.