People said he was demented
Who strode past their dignity
He was happy and decorated
It’s more likely, they’d say so
They weren’t illiterate or unaware
They were taught, from the beginning
These men aren’t humans, beggars
He lies in the street paths
Poverty taught him kindness
To be simple and be thankful
For every penny he thanked
But the ones who warded him off
Still craving for more
Believed they were cursed
And not thankful for the fortunes
Let us be silent for their greed
That will perish with death
My friend has a secret blog, that I cannot track.
These bricks in my back, the hearts in my attack,
cannot seem to trace these misunderstood words,
the words I want to find to make sure she is still alive.
She turns her phone away when she types,
not daring me to hold the hunk of metal in mine own hands
in case I happen to swipe left on an image and find out her secret,
of night time confessions to innocent people,
the phrases I need to know if she's okay.
The words I cannot seem to find,
because my friend request has been denied.
She talks to me about this blog, going on and on
about the people she 'helps',
by asking them if they've had a good day or not,
when in fact
She is neither qualified or in the right state of mind to tell people right from wrong, because she is so far from right she has gotten lost.
She took a turn at the interstate and found herself at the bottom of a river, in which she is trapped.
But she can still manage to pull out her phone and ask everyone if they're okay,
denying the fact that she is
She gets to the point where she thinks the world feels better if she feels worse,
talking herself into believing the lies she feeds herself rather than looking at the bigger picture, much bigger than she is.
and seeing she is hopeless.
The world can't change because of a few words, or a question or a blog, but for the world to reboot and start over.
She has to see that she isn't in the wrong.
But at the same time, she isn't in the right, either.
I saw myself in the bus window,
a paper-white, hunched over,
5'7, gristle deficient
foolish idiot of a thing—
a pink mound stands on the periphery
of my pink cheeks,
sheaf-edge lips stained with the
blood of wine,
an apish grin spread across my face and
I felt unusually pleased
for nothing, for no reason,
(oh well, it sticks being stuck
in the doldrums , yes...)
the hair hangs like cords
(some of it in face and some not)
and I sat there on that seat,
thinking: oh, how disgusting!
male opinion didn't concede,
however, and it was only the
old love and the current love
and male friends who said opposite.
even if I thought they were all
it's nice to know that you,
as a female,
are liked for
by the guys.
that's what I am.
during the winters,
it's easy to swagger around
and say: "they throw a snowball
at me, and I'll beat them all!"
but as reality stands,
you capitulate and can just as
easily be ironed by a shorter,
more gutsy woman
(and most certainly a man)
as well as a troupe of 9, 10, 11
year old kids.
though sometimes, we learn
how to become paper tigers
from the best of them.
First they be brave
Ready and strong to do it
As lions behind a herd
When they reach the point
They swim back
Afraid, cry like lads
It's here, it's here
Take care of it
They were the ones once said
Mind your own business
Now here we are the brokers
Helping them ashore
The day is fragile
A strand of hair stretched taut between scissor blades
There is rebellion in the air
They sing of it in the streets
And in the bars
Chant rebel marches at their parties
With a fire, a passion
voices raised as one
These people will lead the rebellion
It is plastered across the TV
The bough is about to break
Always on the brink
And the singing grows louder with the telling
But the rebels never come
Their songs peter out like a waif
Leaving only rags and dreams behind
And drifts away with the changing winds