If I woke up and worked every day
with a calm execution of plans,
or perhaps at least stayed on approximate track
with the basic things for which I stand.
 
If with a small grain of faith I’d hold the course
knowing that by small things come the grand.
Then I think I’d be dangerous, I’d finally be...
an instrument in the Lord’s hands.

They say…  
it wasn’t messy  
until the cat.  

The cat just wanted to play,  
but somewhere along the way,  
she ran into a human like us.  

Together, they began  
to play with the red string.  

They say…
before the human,  
there was no method to the string—  
just thrown about,  
knotted inexplicably.  

But then man came  
and saved the day.  
The string and cat said, “Hooray!”  

They say…
man showed up  
with rules:  
“The string isn’t a toy,  
it’s a tool.  
Throwing it about  
would be cruel.  
People could trip,  
and one day,  
the string could rip.”  

They say…
they all agreed  
to move the string  
to a different corridor,  
behind a big door.  

“Any questions?”  
A little hand rose up.  
She was lost in the crowd,  
a girl I hadn’t noticed before.  

Her question sent ice to my core:  
“Then why is there red string  
all over the floor?”  

I snapped,
“There is no red string  
on the floor!”  
If they hear her question
Will it be safe for us anymore
The air grows heavier
Much too heavy to breathe
The sounds of heavy footsteps
Now growing louder than a horn
I’ve never heard knocks like this before
Why does it sound like a war
on the other side of the door?
All for a little girl?
Is that what all of this is for?

But then I looked down  
and barely began to see—  
the red string  
had tangled me.  
And by scolding the girl
Instead of letting it be
Have I sentenced her to a fate
just like me?

Too stunned,  
to speak,  
too stuck,  
to move—  

Her soft knowing eyes met mine
With the truth that mine were too calloused to realize
What They say…
might be too good  
to be true.


They say…
they lived happily ever after
They say…. “They will never all question us anyway.”
They say…

She warned me, of "is" becoming "was"
I thought, just enjoy this "is" and let it slowly become "was"
Now I'm lost, for the cause of "is" becoming "was" was to be for a better cause
Or so I thought

It happened, I knew it wasn't going to be the best experience
Buh me and bro always said to ourselves, it will become a memory
I tried as much as possible to be the ideal meaning of obedience
Buh with them, you still have to act careful carefully

And so we were told, I should be weary for I don't know what truth people will unfold
Old, bewildered by the statement behold, were the people who were making my current "is" cold
She oughta know, that her seedling  isn't one to go with the flow
And now, the bow, the phone, the words, the arrow

With all I was told, I couldn't have been trusted enough that there's a reason I'm bold
My bold, mistaken for disrespect to my older foes
I wasn't expecting someone so close to misinterpret my bold
Buh a little distance, messed us up way too low

Sigh, what more could she have said
Manipulative was all she said buh all the abusive words combined couldn't have meant what she meant
They can't handle someone who wouldn't be submissively controlled because I'm a product of their rent
I'm hurt, she's hurt, buh this time, I deserve some respect

With all you told me, you really think I'll go out with just anyone
From everyone to anyone, I made you understand this dude is still a number one
It's fine if I'm to be sealed in like they wish, I just need one good reason why you and them do what you did

Bet you didn't know this side of me still exists
The one that takes up a pen and paper when he's truly sick of how different things persists
I thought it died, cos we've never made it to this level
I just realized the closest people are the ones that bring out my rhythmic rebel

What do you do when
You already know the answer
But the time of the question
Has not come?

Wait.
Sit.
Be,
Still.

Let obedience be a key,
A vessel and that
Yes, shall be an open door
Into a new season.

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

         Convention: Day 4 – A Workshop in Obedience Training

[This doggerel is recyclable and may be employed in both the Republican and Democrat conventions.]

The cult formed obediently for his look-at-me show
Where every response was a fist and a cheer
He didn’t tell his sycophants what they needed to know
But only what he wanted them to hear

Obedience
The word makes my mouth feel weird.
What is it there for.
It is it really there to help with discipline.
Or is it there to make you a tool for society.
Is to maintain you from being yourself.
Or does it suppose to balance it out.
I don't know at this point.
While I was a kid, obedience made me a toy to society.
and held me back from myself.
I grew up resenting everyone who could be themselves wishing I was free.
But finally I have that freedom I crave.
Obedience.
What is it for?

good girls
are not supposed to
get angry
or raise their voices
when they argue
or argue at all
in the first place.

good girls
are not supposed to
wear ripped jeans
or tight shirts
or say the word “****.”
good girls
are not supposed to
even think about *******.

and here I am,
having already used
the word “****”
three times in this poem.

good girls
are not supposed to
get plastered
on school nights
or tipsy before classes
or listen to music
with the volume
cranked all the way up.

good girls
are not supposed to
know which windows
make the least noise
when they’re sneaking out
or know where they can
buy cheap alcohol underage
or know who they can kiss
and where to kiss them
to get what they want.

good girls
are supposed to
smile silently and be pure
and go to church
or wherever they pray
to cleanse their filthy souls.

good girls
are supposed
to believe in
and put their trust in
and have faith in a god.

good girls
are supposed to
expect this god to
keep them away from harm,
and to never learn how to
keep themselves safe
if this god fails to.

good girls
are not supposed to
act anything like me.

the only thing
I have ever truly
believed in is poetry.

I outgrew religion by
the time I turned seventeen,
long before then
if I’m being honest.

I never turned to prayer for
advice on how to live my life.

I never turned to anyone
but myself.

I only consulted the bible
when I needed inspiration
for some tragic poem.

good girls
are not supposed to
write poetry
the way that I
write poetry.

good girls
never speak of or write about
*** and drugs and violent minds
and suicide and more ***
and broken hearts.

good girls
don’t sing along to
the lyrics of sad songs
in front of open windows
just for the ******* sake of it.

but good girls
don’t realize that life is short
until it’s too late.

good girls don’t ever
get to feel alive.

a girl like me
who gets into trouble
and refuses to stay quiet
and causes a scene
everywhere she goes
is not a good girl.

a girl like me
might be too reckless
and die too young.

but a girl like me
will die with no regrets
and plenty of memories
and so many *******
stories to tell.

a girl like me
will live the life that
good girls dream of,
but never get to talk about.