"councilors" poems
sages and brethren
gather, and share
and slowly souls
are bared
their tempered voices
and quiet eyes
reserved of judgment
with passing smiles
moments blend
in current trends
opinions wide
and reflections deep
the concepts
and irregularities
once murky
now clear
they prioritize
and familiarize
that staunch resolution
of generation net
will remunerate
and illuminate
through the checkpoints
and formal reviews
through the purple curtains
and open stage
nothing tainted
or bitter
left for taste
cause its they
who’ll plant the seeds
the captains of commerce
healers and jugglers
the coaches and councilors
negotiators and compromisers
the kings and queens
hustlers and hellcats
(who've all found their way!)
let us tip our hats
and salute them*
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 2:05 PM UTC
I come from the large Texas city Houston. Where prices are decent, and crime is high, that includes death. Spring Break of 2016, I saw on Instagram, people I half *** knew were posting pictures of you, saying you had gone missing. I was baffled. I hardly knew you, but I still did parcally know you from sharing the same first period class. I knew you by your first name, but couldn't tell you I could remember your last. Days passed, your story stumbled onto the news. The same picture being displayed across television screens across the city, attempting to find your kidnapper. Your father had been shot and burned. Reporters said it was possible that you witnessed this. I hope you didn't witness your father's demise, I really do. I was getting my hair done at a salon when my father told me police had found your corpse. They first announced she was shot, then sexually assaulted. My heart dropped, this was the youngest tragedy I had witnessed before, but, again, I barley knew you. I knew when I came back to school after the week long break that the atmosphere would be somber. First period, algebra. That was the only class you and I shared. Our teacher talked about you, with such kind words, choking up, and in tears. The principal and councilors visited, making sure no one was shaken too bad by her passing. I looked from across the room where you used to sit, on the complete opposite side of the room, at your now hallow desk. Funny, how before the break, our teacher spoke of being safe because she knew a teacher friend of hers who lost two students of his, and how devastated he was over it, knowing they'd never come back or step foot in his class room. It's the same for my highschool algebra teacher. One of the last days we had with her before finals, she asked us to write letters to Adriana's mother, that she'd give them to her, she asked in tears once more. I wrote her mother, saying how no one deserves this kind of loss. How her daughter was a good kid. I went off of what her best friend told me in drawing class as a base to Adriana's personality. She seemed bright, and bubbly, and friendly, and joy, and laughter. But alas, I never knew her, and I will never get to know you, because you have been taken, sooner than expected.
Jun 11, 2016
Jun 11, 2016 at 10:26 PM UTC
Please take time to read this <3
Few people know that I have come close to ending my own life, at least 4 times. At the time that is what I wanted, to die. Mostly because I thought it would take Away the pain and suffering I felt. I never fit in, kids at school would find any reason to make fun of me. When I was eight years old my sister and I were sent to a foster home. I was told on many occasions that my father wanted nothing to do with me. So I became depressed and lived by a label known as emo. One night I felt extremely depressed and I took a razor blade to my wrist. I watched as the blood ran out of the wound I had made and at that moment I realized I was addicted. Not only to cuting but to the feeling I got when I saw my blood. I knew I had a problem, I would cut every night just so I could feel something I could control and that I knew was real. My friends in middle school saw the cuts and tried to get me help but it only made it worse. I was put into therapy but that doesn't help unless you talk, in which I didn't. I didn't feel safe. The foster home my sister and I were living in was not a very good one. The guy was a creep. So we were forced out of that home and got adopted by my uncle. We tried many councilors and therapists but nothing seemed to help.
I eventually got an 18 year old boyfriend and I was only 15. He got me drunk one night and took advantage of me. He stole my innocence, and gave me something else in return. A baby. But that baby died. Know matter how much it hurts I know that baby is better off with out me. I was so young.
To this day, I still think about hurting myself but I am proud. I have gone a little over 4 months with out self harm, and with every day I grow stronger and stronger. So to those who took the time to read this, thank you. And if you are going through the same struggles, find a clear path and stay on it. Doesn't matter if you're an alcoholic, or a druggy, or even a *** addict. The only way to get better is through steps. Start with a week and slowly move up. I believe in you. Every single one.
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 1:31 AM UTC
We where all called together.
Round the table we sat, chatting away.
Waiting to hear what all the fuzz was about.
I joked "bet someone died" and we all laughed.
A second later our councilors showed up.
Our smiles died off quickly.
A chill went down our spines.
Since we are all addicts here, we could feel what was up.
We waited for what seemed like forever.
Just to hear what we already knew.
Our fellow recovering friend was no more.
Our breath stopped, just like his did last night.
I felt so lonely, just like he must've been last night.
All I could think about was drugs, just like he did last night.
Now,
I'm in my room, alone.
Struggling the same battle as he did last night.
But I'm not gonna make the same mistake.
I'm not gonna give in, like I wish he didn't.
Oh, if only he didn't. We could still be struggling together right now....
Jun 21, 2017
Jun 21, 2017 at 5:42 PM UTC
“I’ve been sober for two months now,”
I was proud of these words when I sent them your way
You seemed proud of me too.
Two months battling the Beast
Inside of me
Always craving, itching, howling
To be let out of it’s cage.
I resisted.
I defied the Beast for the people I love,
And for the people who cherish me.
“One day at a time,”
The councilors tell me,
And I learned, slowly, how to treat myself well.
We spoke on the phone last night,
After I had finally gotten my med dose right.
“I’m single now; we broke up…”
The way you said it tugged at my heart
As if I was going to be your fresh start.
And I fell, knowing you would catch me.
“I’m getting drunk now.”
Were the last words you said to
Me. The recovering addict.
As if my words seemed feasible
You cashed them in for something better.
If words had arms attached to them,
Yours would punch a grenade in my gut.
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 10:45 AM UTC
There's the thrift shop and
that's the pop the weasel shop,
this is the high street
a bit down on its luck
and these are the councilors
who don't give a ****
(Grammarly suggests I put a question mark after ****
so I did, **** off Grammarly)
I am wondering when
they'll start building again
or have we run out of bricks?
The economy appears to have had
a hysterectomy and
someone will **** me for this.
Jul 22, 2019
Jul 22, 2019 at 2:16 PM UTC