who can say what love is?
except those who suffer loves truth?

and knowing the truth
be set free

A hint of disapproval
Would turn me upside down
I do not seem to be brave enough
To set it on my own
And splashes of emotions
Of those I can't control
They turn me upside down.

I cannot trust my instinct
I do not feel secure
Of my own inspiration
I need confirmation
And do not know for sure
Whether my devotion
Has the results that I've hoped for

So all this renegation
The fear of humiliation
They turn me upside down
And that I can't control...

I wanna close my eyes and dissapear somewhere far
This reality is turning into something too hard.

When my eyes are closed, I can be happy again
It is full of colors, it's all new terrain-
And there I am, flying, without an airplane.

Oftentimes I wonder what would it be like
In only one second, get rid of this life
And not to stop living; but rather ghostlike
Experience a living where sadness's unlike.

The dream is still running, but soon it will stop
I wish it would stay here, if only one drop-
This small piece of hoping would keep me on top
Would induce my spirit to enjoy the hop
Ignoring the fearing, remove the teardrop.

(tw; family dysfunction)

I don't remember the day we first met.
I don't remember the time or the place
or what you were wearing
or what the very first thing you said to me was.

Honestly, it's difficult to imagine you
speaking to me at all, because, well,
that would require me not giving off an aura of distaste
to everyone in my general vicinity,
due to my extreme distrust of people in general.

Knowing me, we probably didn't even speak
until I grew used to seeing your face day after day,
became accustomed to your presence.

It's likely I knew your name before I said a word to you,
as I am an introvert with a side of social anxiety,
and it's always been a bit difficult for me to make friends.

Even after the first words we exchanged
transformed into our first conversation,
as pitiful of an excuse for one as it may have been,
there was nothing spectacularly romantic about it.

It was just passing remarks littered with wit,
sarcasm, and largely inappropriate humor.

 I don't remember when you became so important to me.

No matter how much I wrack my brain,
clawing meticulously through every memory I can reach
in my largely disorganized mind,
it's impossible for me to pinpoint that one moment,
the instant in time that changed everything.

What I do remember is the way every inch of your face
reddens when you laugh,
that contagious grin spreading across your cheeks
as if you had just heard the funniest thing in the world.

I remember how it feels when I'm the one causing that smile,
that rush of accomplishment I get when I can make you happy,
even for just a moment.

Those little things, however insignificant they may seem,
are stuck with me,
ingrained into my brain like the stain of spilled grape juice
on a once-pure white shirt,
imprinted into my soul like an unexpected fissure in a landscape.

They torture me, day and night,
and you would expect by the way I describe these feelings
that I want them to go away,
that I want to remove the stain you've made on my life,
stitch my landscape back together
and act as though you hadn’t cracked me open,
and maybe, once upon a time, I would have,
but now?
I never want them to go away.

As much as it pains me to feel this way,
and as much as I sometimes despise being so attached to you,
undeniably and irrevocably reliant on your existence in my world,
you've made me feel ways that, a few years ago,
I didn’t think were possible.

Not long ago, I wasn't even sure if being happy with myself
was possible,
much less feeling anything close to whatever this may be,
because I haven't quite figured it out yet.

All I know is that I care about you,
no matter how much or how little that may mean.
I care in ways that I probably shouldn't.

I want to protect you, keep you safe from harm,
and when I can't, it hurts.

It physically hurts me to see you endure any kind of suffering,
and yet I know you have to, every single day,
because you've told me so.

I've sewn together the shreds of you,
the real you, that you've shown me,
and as short and fleeting as those glimpses may have been,
I only want to see more.

I want to know who you really are, behind the mask,
behind the walls of the impenetrable stone fortress
that you've built for yourself.

You like caging your heart in your chest to protect it from harm,
I know that all too well,
but I want to put the pieces of you back together,
and even if I can't,
I will hold the shards of your soul with my bare hands
and keep you close to me.

No matter how long it takes,
no matter how painful it is,
no matter how much I bleed,
I'll do it for you.

 Most people sweep broken things into a dustpan
and toss them in a trash bag,
tying them up and leaving them on the side of the road
with all of the other discarded and damaged items
that once had a purpose,
but I'm not one of those people.

I keep every broken thing I've ever come across,
if I can hold on long enough,
whether it be pieces of someone else or pieces of myself.

With you, though, I think it's both.

You remind me of the way I used to be,
and the way I am now.

Maybe that's why I care so much.
Because I know what it's like to have a mask.

I understand how it feels to have to protect yourself
from your own family,
because even they find ways to hurt you,
even when they try not to,
even when they don't.

You know that, though, or at least,
you may have come to that conclusion,
because I've offered shreds of myself to you, too,
the suffering I've had to endure.

You know, but I want you to understand why,
why I've allowed you to see the pieces of me that
I rarely show anyone.

Because I understand what it's like, and at the end of the day,
we're not that different.

After all, we’re both in pieces.

We’ve lost so much of ourselves,
and even though we’ve tried to keep the fragments together,
losing them was inevitable for us.

There’s not enough left to restore us completely.

We would have to search to the ends of the Earth
to even come close to making ourselves whole again,
and even then, it wouldn’t be enough.

But maybe we don’t have to.

Maybe we only need to look right in front of us,
because together,
we have enough to make something extraordinary.

(tw; family dysfunction)

That's the word you use, isn't it? 
"Did you remember to call the vet?"
"Oh, no, my bad, I was a little preoccupied."
"What about the trash company? We haven't gotten our bins yet."
"Shoot, I completely forgot."
"We still have to get our internet set up, remember?"
"I did say I was going to do that, didn't I?"

Yes, you did.

You did say that.

And every day,
I have to remind you again,
like a parent pestering their child
about cleaning that pigsty of a room,
and every day,
that growing pile of promises remains untouched,
unfulfilled, and increasingly funny-smelling.

Being preoccupied has practically become your job,
so it's no wonder that absentmindedness is sometimes known
as preoccupation.

All jokes aside, there is a fine line between forgetfulness
and prioritization of him over us,
a line you've made a point of crossing
at every opportunity that has arisen.

But maybe I'm unfairly assigning blame. 

Maybe we're both at fault. 

Because, you see, I lied. 

Those words never left your lips, but even fabricated excuses,
however exasperating they would have been to truly hear,
are still better than the reality.

With each reminder, I was met with an ever-so-slight
narrowing of the eyes that so closely resemble my own,
a sigh of "yes, I know,"
and even more empty promises. 

And yet, I continue to persist. 

Why? Because it's important to me. To us. 

I'm beginning to wonder if it's worth it,
waiting for something that will never come.

Maybe I'm overreacting. 

Now that I think about it, it does seem trivial,
insignificant in the grand scheme of things,
but it's those little trivialities that
you were supposed to be responsible for.
​​​​​
You preach to me about the importance of family,
and admonish me when I take that family for granted,
and yet you disregard your own,
not even bothering to ask us how we feel
about this unfamiliar, near-constant presence in our home.

He can never fill in what is missing,
can never make up for what has been absent for years,
but I may have grown to like him, had he not be forced upon me.

I have been given no choice but to interact, to tolerate. 

I have no say whatsoever because my voice has been stifled
by your unwillingness to listen,
your apathy regarding what I may have to say.

Maybe you're afraid. 

Afraid of what we think of him. 

Afraid of disappointment. 

But the more distance you put between yourself and us,
the more time of ours you take and fill with him,
the clearer your message becomes.

We don't matter. 

We aren't important enough.

Our thoughts, our feelings,
they are absolutely and unequivocally irrelevant.

You don't care. 

How did this happen? 
Was it him? Did he do this? Or was it something else?

Did we do something? Did I do something?

There has to be a reason, a rational explanation.
Of course there is, why wouldn't there be?

There's a valid reason, isn't there? 

​​​​​​I can fix this.
Tell me how to fix this.
There has to be a way to fix it.  

What did I do wrong? 

Sorry, did you say something? I was preoccupied.

Here I am.

Again.

A subject almost too fossilized to write about
If I’ve strained every morsel of poesy from this experience then,
why do I keep living it?

Choice?

I am able to feign perennial gratitude for my salvation
For one brief moment
Before I’m willing to sell every stitch of my being for one last
glimpse
of synthesized rapture

By: Cedric McClester

They plied ‘em with
Drugs and liquor
Because it worked quicker
In getting girls into their beds
Once they were out of their heads
It was raw and dank
A sick schoolboy prank
Watching frat boys pulling rank

They found themselves
Used, compromised
Once they opened their eyes
Those girls placed  
In awkward positions
On whom one after another
***** frat brother
Exercised their ambitions

They gave no second thought
To what their actions
Had wrought
Or the damage that
It might have done
To the victimized one
Once they shot off their gun
And their train had ended its run

They were young men then
Is their weak excuse
For their repeated ****** abuse
That they later try to dismiss
It was gross disrespect
Not consensual ***
Despite that pretext
That defies our intellects









Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2018.  All rights reserved.

Do not tell me
Your best friend wouldn't be
Gasping for air as she
Hurls herself to the ground
In agony and grief.
Do not tell me
Your classmates wouldn't stare
At your empty seat
Holding back tears
Long after you're gone.
Do not tell me
Your teachers wouldn't give anything
To read one more paper
Or grade one more test
So long as they can have you back.
Do not tell me
Your brother wouldn't
Walk past your closed door and
Be yelled at one more time
For one more stupid problem.
Do not tell me that your father wouldn't wish
That he could hold his baby
Instead of watching them lower his princess
Into her final resting place.
And do not ******* tell me that your mother wouldn't sob
As she washed your last load of laundry
That you would ever *****,
Wishing she could smell her baby girl
One last time.

Do not tell me they wouldn't miss you

Because they would.