Dying is not the real pain.
The real pain is living inconsequentially
futilely, while others forbid you to die,
but forbid you feel earnestly;
seeing a whole unblemished person,
but little do they know
I am already dead.
#
It's not my pain that disgusts them,
it's the cutting
and that's why they treat the symptoms
but neglect the cause
and forbid me to talk about her
because the sound of her name
makes you regret me.
#
I AM MATURE:
I am new and improved and dead.
This was written on the back of a folded statistics assignment in English 107 my freshman year. The first two poems are heavy-handed (not my usual poetry, but I felt sometimes that I couldn't express myself). However, the last one is short and vague. My then-boyfriend said his friends thought I was much more mature than I was when I first met him at seventeen, but I felt that I had just grown afraid of people.
(Coming of Age - K. D. Kilker) Years of handwritten poetry and stories will be typed for safekeeping online following a technological failure in 2013. I am currently twenty-one and the pieces range from the age of fourteen to nineteen. They may not be good, but they are revealing.
