"ehem"
we all hear it
the voice of the once-feeble boy
whom we always assumed would
end up in some shabby office job
typing away schedules and making spreadsheets
avoiding fellow humans and drinking coffee– black

the voice that seemed so small to us then
now seems impossibilly loud–
ridiculously honest, and tragically sad

and no trace of anger or shame
or anything that bears resemblance to
the last picture of the boy
you carry in your minds

important people, marked by name-tags
and good posture–
nice suits
surround him

it's all very intimidating
all of you hoping
he makes no mention
of you, or you, or you

and the wait, for him to speak
is nerve-wracking and
feels remarkably long
with people tapping their feet
impatiently, and readjusting their ties

until finally he clears his voice once more
and addresses the crowd
the audience exchanges expressions
of amazement, wonder

his voice is strong and reaches you
though you're hiding in the very last row
and you can't bear to meet his eyes
or return his flashy smile

he makes a speech
and you settle into your seat
as you forget your own presence

all seems well
until
he stops mid-word
and meets your stare

and

all of a sudden it's 1979 again
and you're back in that playground
and you have a bat in your hand
and he has fear in his eyes
and he's crying
and begging you to let go
but something in you snaps
and you hit him
right across the nose
before you could stop– and then you sprint

it sinks in when you're halfway home
and you stop and hesitate
feel the guilt
but shrug it off
and walk the rest of the way back

the roles are reversed now
and he is clearly the bigger man
and you are small, and weak
and petty

a playground bully is your only claim to fame
while he is the president of this ******* country.

he starts again
and you feel worse than you would had he
given you the punishment you deserved

nope, this boy ain't angry- or ashamed,
only hurt, and blatantly sad.
so, so sad.

You cry everyday
      and you lose a bit of yourself everyday
and the only time you feel yourself smiling is after you've drunk so much you're passed out on the floor.

you love that headache you wake up to
because it fogs up your brain
you don't need to stop yourself from thinking too much
cause you can't think at all.

and you're thankful you can't remember last night or even the night before
and if anyone asks you if you've been drinking again
it's always a "no, not anymore"

and it's clear they know you're lying
but they've given up on you for a while
so they just pat you on the back
and leave with a forced smile

people call you
to "check up on you"
to ask "how's it going"
to say "I miss you"

you mumble
"thanks" and
"it's going." and
"yeah."

it's hard for them
knowing you don't miss them
back
knowing you want to die

and it takes everything in you
to stop yourself from crying
so you hang up
grab a bottle

and laugh
because in a few minutes
you'll be smiling
while you pass out on the floor.

from the very first glimpse of world that greets you every sunday,
                                            tuesday
or perhaps thursday morning
the thought of an ordinary day will not dawn upon you
for every day, to you, will be as good as your first
and as bad as your last
life is your dress rehearsal
and its creatures are your cast

seated at the breakfast table
alone
   with alphabet cereal
swirling in milk
avidly spelling out the names
of all the galaxies
    and daydreaming
of sleeping under the stars

daytime means schooltime
which is synonymous with
underpaid teachers
    and high-pitched gossip
and boys with peach fuzz
who never bothered remembering your name.

the cafeteria is a habitat
which houses many
different species
of human
including the undercover poet
scribbling on a grease-stained
napkin :
the ballad of a sad child.

upon a steady return
to the undercover's residence
three things occur:
      his fountain pen is quenched
          his tears dried
and of course, a bitter realization
that his day had been most banal.

so once again the poet sets off

footsteps patting against textured carpet
   your shaky palms
grabbing layers of soft duvet
  dragging it across the empty floor
through the hallways
  and out the front door

under the stars
   you lay and weep:  safe forever
and fully submerged in the calm of the night

forever is not a lifetime
it seems
but the time it takes
for the sun to win over the moon
in a fight

we are praying
by the day

we are hoping
to find the way

in a crowd
we are lost
open your mouth
speak your thoughts

in this world
you are judged
for many things
but
your beauty
has no amount
if the words
stuck in your mouth
on the very tip of your tongue
in the essence of air you breath out don't
make their way
around.

horror stories muffled by pillow forts and blankets that stretch across the
vast of my beloved
room.

in hiding--
your young skin
    is shielded
  by a lonely
shadow dancing
with sunlight.

the room's symphony plays on as
a crescendo of
soft laughter
and light footsteps
cues in.

magazines     sprawled on
the carpeted-floor
jennifers & ashleys
glamorously sporting
shiny hair.

away messages
are synonymous
to x's and hearts
bordering
your
besties' names.

and these are the best
years of your life
but it just feels like dirt
to your name
being young
gets old.

mobiles in purses
strapped to your chest
"I HEART NY" keychains
dangling by the locket
that frames your blurry
picture of
him.

you feel so important
surrounded by friends
and people who
shower you with
lots of
cheap love.

you don't care
about what you don't know
and it's easy
living
when all you're living
is the lie of happiness.