"disapprovingly" poems
*Come, we have a story, said the Old Man. Come, sit and I shall tell you all a little tale of a donkey, a boy and his father…and of strangers too…and many a busybody…
And the children sat round the campfire and the Old Man began his tale…*
One day
(and this is many, many
uncountable days ago)
Father called Son
and he said:
‘Son
you are grown now
into a fine young lad
and you must learn
how to buy and sell
and make a profit
‘So, come let us go
you and I
to the market to see
what silver coins we can get
for this old donkey
in our shed’
2
And so Son and Dad
set out for the town market
across the sandy and rocky miles
and some way off
Dad grew tired and he said:
‘Ah, Son
this walk tires me and so
I shall ride the donkey
while you walk by the side;
so, come let us go
you and I
to the market to see
what silver coins we can get
for this old donkey
that I shall ride’
3
** **
What do we have here?’
came a voice
as the Dad sat riding the donkey
while the Son walked by the side
‘A cruel father you are,’
said the Family Standards Officer
‘Get down, you grown man
and let the child ride!’
And the Father was ashamed
and so he let the Son ride the donkey
and he walked beside
And the Family Standards Officer
was extremely pleased
and he filled up his forms
and he bade the Father and Son safe journey:
‘Ah, this is another
success story
of the Family Welfare Dept
where conscience has won the day
and the Son rides the donkey
and the Father walks beside’
4
And the Father and Son are gone but a mile, a mile - when another interruption came their way, heading straight their way….
‘What do we have here?’
came a scream
and the Mandarin of the
State Morals Education
stopped the trio
and the Mandarin glared disapprovingly
at the boy riding the donkey and he said:
‘Where is your filial piety?
Know you not the son must do his duty
by the father?
Get off the donkey -
you young donkey!
and allow your father to ride
while you walk with reverence
and duty beside!’
And so now we have the
Father on the donkey
and the Son walking beside
all three slowly on and on
Father and son
to the market to see
what silver coins
they might get
for this old donkey
that they have taken turns to ride
5
Then comes an old woman
and she mutters to herself as she passes by:
‘Ah, what’s come of life
that a father should ride and
allow the young to walk.’
And so the Father bids his Son
be a pillion rider with him on the donkey
and so they ride
merrily, merrily
on to the market
to see
what silver coins they can get
for this old donkey
that they both ride
5
But no sooner have they covered
but a mile, just a mile
with the respectable Father
and the filial Son
(both on the hapless donkey)
when a voice thunders out from the bush
and the Animal Rights Activist stands out
and he screams:
‘Oh, you cruel people
that you should ride a helpless donkey !
Shame on you!
Much better that you both
carried the creature!’
And of course
the Son and Father
so reasonable and
always with an open mind
they jump off the donkey
and they carry
the donkey all the way
all the way
just four more miles
just four more miles
and they soon come into the market
carrying the donkey
and shouting:
‘Donkey for sale!
Donkey for sale!’
6
And the buyers
at the markets
they see
this Father and Son
carrying the donkey
and screaming:
‘Donkey f or sale!
Donkey for sale!’
And the buyers they say:
‘But it appears, Sirs,
there are
three donkeys for sale
three donkeys for sale!
In declaring
“Donkey for Sale!”
when there are clearly three
are you offering three
for the price of one?’
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 7:04 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
Last Sunday after Pentecost
A calling-crow-cold sky ceilings the world,
Lowering the horizon to itself
All silvery and grey upon the fields
Of pale, exhausted, dry-corn-stalk summer
The earth is tired, the air is cold, the dawn
False-promises nothing but an early dusk
As calling-cold-crows crowd the world with noise,
Loud-gossiping from tree to ground to sky
Soon falling frosts and fields of ice will fold
Even those fell, foolish fowls into the depths
Of dark creek bottoms where dim ancient oaks
Hide darkling birds from wild blue northern winds
Crows squawk of Advent disapprovingly,
For Advent-autumn drifts to Christmastide
When all the good of the seasonal year
Then warms and charms the house, the hearth, the heart.
Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 9:06 PM UTC
Orange and yellow
Exploding with memories like pinpricks and broken glass
"Tiger Lilly's, that's your flower"
"Why tiger Lilly's?"
"Bright and lovely, they suit you. You know you deserve better than what you give yourself. You're more than this drug fiend you say you are"
He drank seven beers at breakfast, the waitress looks over disapprovingly
"Talk to me tell me how you have been, I worry about you."
I eye the empty beers and say nothing
Worried about me while his own addiction flourishes in front of me
His worry for me was a distraction from his own crumbling
"You taste like ashes, everything tastes like ashes"
"I trust you"
Letting go of you with every breath
Goodbye friend
I miss you
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 7:03 PM UTC
The Pear,
Armed with scissors
And glue
Settled down to
His task
The Apples,
Glared disapprovingly
Coxes have no time
For arts
And crafts
The Bananas,
Thought the whole
Affair was beneath them
They thought
Too much
The Kiwis,
Were green with envy
At such freedoms
Desire, bursting
Through brown coats
The Grapes,
Clung to each other
Fearful, by nature
At the concept
Of life beyond
The Fruit-bowl
Jan 31, 2012
Jan 31, 2012 at 4:57 AM UTC
Last Sunday after Pentecost
A calling-crow-cold sky ceilings the world,
Lowering the horizon to itself
All silvery and grey upon the fields
Of pale, exhausted, dry-corn-stalk summer
The earth is tired, the air is cold, the dawn
False-promises nothing but an early dusk
As calling-cold-crows crowd the world with noise,
Loud-gossiping from tree to ground to sky
Soon falling frosts and fields of ice will fold
Even those fell, foolish fowls into the depths
Of dark creek bottoms where dim ancient oaks
Hide darkling birds from wild blue northern winds
Crows squawk of Advent disapprovingly,
For Advent-autumn drifts to Christmastide
When all the good of the seasonal year
Then warms and charms the house, the hearth, the heart.
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 4:02 PM UTC
A Poem for June
Just why a cucumber should be so cool
Eludes the logical; a cucumber’s just
A vegetable a-lying on the ground
Awaiting consumption. But let’s accept
This vegetarian cliché’ simply
To get on with this cool descriptive task:
Whatever’s cool in the falling June sun
Descends through oak leaves, dark and summer green
And dancing down the air falls happily
Upon this cool cucumber cave where sits
Upon a wooden bench a lazy man
Who should be taking now another turn
With lawnmower, shovel, or shears against
The wild greenness of happy midsummer.
But, oh! Persephone surely won’t mind
If her allotted garden tasks are paused
By her appointed minion rustic who
Takes now his ease in her delightful shade.
For summer after all is more than work;
She calls for dozing too, and dreamily
Watching busy bees buzz among the flowers,
Like fussy matchmakers arranging marriages,
And hummingbirds humming in and out of leaves,
Their sanctuary leaves, to argue at
The nectar-feeders, as if there weren’t
Enough for all. The squirrels in the trees
Would never condescend to chitter there;
They glare at humans disapprovingly,
Like old teachers unhappily aware
That, oh, somewhere, somehow a child might be
Enjoying life, and that would never do!
Even the ribbon of smoke from the morning’s
Trimmings and cuttings and sawings appears
To be taking a nap in the summer noon,
There gently snoring up wisps of ashes
Instead of roaring, hissing manfully
As it did in the early hours.
The bench
Along the fence where the tired old man sits
Creaks as he shifts his weight, and watches
His backyard world doze in the leaf-laced sun;
He lights a well-deserved cigar, and sees
Its soothing smoke join with the ******* fire
Ascending heavenward with peaceful thoughts.
Jun 1, 2019
Jun 1, 2019 at 1:05 PM UTC
Last week I sold a bunch of my memories
to help pay the rent. It was either that or my car.
I gave them 146 rarely used memories, they gave me $40.88…
I thought it was a fair deal. I mean, I wasn’t using them…
A couple weeks later I was curious
to see how they were selling, so I walked to the second-hand shop
that had made the deal with me. I saw an elderly woman looking
at my memories. She picked one up, stared at it disapprovingly, then
tossed it casually back in the pile. She did this a couple more times, then
walked away. I waited until she had left, then walked up and picked
up the one she was looking at. It was a memory of kissing and elbows.
Whispers and smiles.
I stood perplexed with the memory in my hands, wondering to myself what
brought about the look of disapproval. To each their own, I suppose…
I hung around that day, trying to get into the heads of
those who were looking into mine…with little success.
There were laughs, tears, and the occasional snarky comment. I watched a memory of driving
down an empty interstate with the windows down on an exquisite summer day sell
for 28 cents. I saw a memory of climbing trees and rope swings leave with an old man
who wanted to remember youth. A girl with dreadlocks in her twenties took a fuzzy memory
of less than legal implications.
I came by every day until they were all but gone, only a few stragglers here and there; One of a hospital bed,
another of a meatloaf dinner in January.
I really don’t like meatloaf.
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 2:47 PM UTC
The First Sunday of Advent
A calling-crow-cold sky ceilings the world,
Lowering the horizon to itself
All silvery and grey upon the fields
Of pale, exhausted, dry-corn-stalk summer
The earth is tired, the air is cold, the dawn
False-promises nothing but an early dusk
As calling-cold-crows crowd the world with noise,
Loud-gossiping from tree to ground to sky
Soon falling frosts and fields of ice will fold
Even those fell, foolish fowls into the depths
Of dark creek bottoms where dim ancient oaks
Hide darkling birds from wild blue northern winds
Crows squawk of Advent disapprovingly,
As Advent-autumn drifts to Christmastide
When all the good of the seasonal year
Then warms and charms the house, the hearth, the heart.
Nov 27, 2016
Nov 27, 2016 at 10:37 AM UTC
Once school was done
and after your tea
of beans on toast
you went with Janice
to the narrow passages
behind the ABC cinema
evening creeping in
she next to you
getting the jitters
street lights
here and there
casting shadows
making pretend giants
and you'd pick up
dog-ends
from the ground
and put them
in your pocket
what do you want
them for?
she asked
make myself
a cigarette later
you said
cigarette?
she said disapprovingly
you mustn't
that's horrible
and those
left over cigarette butts
have got
people's spit in them
but they make
good cigarettes
you said
her face grimaced
you took in
her red beret
to the side
of her fair hair
her blue eyes
on fire
if I did that
Gran'd spank me
well and truly
Janice said
trick is
not to be caught
you said
a rat ran by
and she screamed
a rat ran by
my foot
she stepped back
and grabbed your arm
yes you get them here
at this time
of an evening
you said
I shouldn't be here
she said quietly
Gran thinks
I'm in the park
well as far she knows
you still are
you said
but that's lying
she said
no it is being
careful with the truth
you said
you walked along
the passageway
and came out
on to the New Kent Road
and at the front
of the cinema
with its big billboards
and little photos
of the film being shown
and what was
to be shown
you peered
at the photographs
Janice beside you
how about
I bring you here
on Saturday?
you said
she peered
at the photographs
then at you
it's a cowboy film
she said
yes and its got
good gunfights in it
and I can practice
how they do it
she frowned
not sure
if Gran'd let me
she said
say you're with me
and she will
you said
she didn't look
convinced
bit her lip
treat you
to an ice cream too
you said
how much will it cost?
she asked
1/-3d
you said
but don't worry
my old man will pay
he usually does
she bit her lip
a little more
have to ask Gran
she said
ok
you said
then you walked
along the road
past some shops
then stopped
at the fish and chips shop
smell that
you said and sniffed
she sniffed
isn't that good
you said
she sniffed again
smells of vinegar
she said
and fish and chips
you said
she looked at you
her blue eyes
lit up
by the light
from the shop
want some chips?
you asked
I've no money
she said
I've got 6d
that'll get us
a bag to share
she nodded
so you both
went into the shop
and the warmth
and the smell
and the noise
from some radio
blasting out
a Bill Haley song
and ordered a 6d
bag of chips
and added
salt and vinegar
and walked out
and across the road
and down Meadow Row
the moonlight bright
lighting up
the beginning of night.
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 2:28 AM UTC
(Scene: A funeral service, at the graveside. Two mourners talking to one another)
Duncan died then, so he finally gave up his goose.
< (disapprovingly) Gave up his ghost not his goose! >
Tis sad, very sad.
< Aye, maybe twas for the best, I heard he'd been sufferin'... He's gone to a better land now. >
(Looking at him amazed, having not heard properly) He what ! He's gone where!! He's gone to the Netherlands!!!
< He's gone to a better land! a better land!! A better place!!! For fecks sake! >
(A lone Piper starts to play a lament by the graveside)
(after a few moments listening) I love the sound of the poops. A lone **** in the wind....He's a fine wee pooper that lad.
< He's a Piper not a Pooper!
(under his breath) Only Pooper around here is you. (smiles to himself thinking) A Super Pooper. (smiles even more) A Super Duper Pooper. >
Y'know he was quite a pooper himself in his day, was Duncan. I can still remember his pooping well. A Prize Pooper was Duncan, his pooping was often the talk of the town.
< (sadly & dreamily) Well, no more will his...his poops be heard around the Glens. Only silence now and the wind....o'er the heather, the fields and the crags. >
I'm not a bad pooper myself y'know.
< (smiles) I bet ye are. >
< (thinks to himself) But the heather will bloom again, and the children, they'll play in the meadows.>
Jan 30, 2021
Jan 30, 2021 at 10:16 AM UTC
Anxiousness drooped from the ear,
Fastened by a clip.
An uncomfortable feeling instilled in the bones,
Making up your frame.
Conversations,
Disapprovingly true.
The buzzing won’t stop,
Willingness would fall,
Until it’ll all stop,
For once and all.
Mar 9, 2020
Mar 9, 2020 at 10:21 PM UTC
We are the curvy girls.
Reubenesque, if you will.
Society calls us “fat girls”
And they treat us like a plague.
To school nurses, we may as well be lepers
The media is more tactful,
And pretends that we aren’t here at all.
Today I went walking in the woods.
I wore a dress and a flower crown
And the wind picked up my hair
And right then I knew I was beautiful.
But then I came back home
And suddenly
I didn’t know anything at all.
“We are beautiful, in every single way.
And words can’t bring us down.”
Only sometimes they can.
It hurts
When you see your grandfather for the first time in months
And he asks if you’ve lost weight.
You haven’t.
It’s just that he remembers you as the “fat grandchild”
And his vision of you is warped.
“Sticks and stones may break our bones,
But words will never hurt us.”
Only sometimes they will.
It hurts
When you’re among friends
And you pick up a size 6’ or an 8’ at a clothing store
And they ask if you’re sure it’s big enough
Like you don’t have experience with these things
Like you’re the delusional one.
“We are beautiful, in every single way.
And words can’t bring us down”
Only sometimes they can.
It hurts
When you’re eating lunch with your very own mother
And you order something that isn’t a salad
And she shakes her head disapprovingly
And hisses that you need to be more careful
As if it’s that easy
“Sticks and stones may break our bones,
But words will never hurt us.”
Only sometimes they will.
It hurts
When you’re among friends
And in a fit of mental anguish, you call yourself fat
And it takes them
just a little too long
To refute it
When I went walking in the woods
With my dress and my flower crown and the blowing wind
I knew I was beautiful
But the world tries to make me forget
“We are beautiful, in every single way.
And words can’t bring us down”
But sometimes, that’s hard to remember
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 11:11 PM UTC
Society's time clock is looking down on me.
It does so very disapprovingly.
Because for some odd reason.
Society thinks that it is treason.
That I am not in a relationship.
It goes against Society's script.
It says that I will never be happy.
Until I find some devotee.
I've never really had a real boyfriend.
Why would I want someone in which to depend?
Everyone will always let you down.
In the end they will happily watch you drown.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 5:59 PM UTC
They called him "bubbles" when he grew up,
Rolls of fat around his waist.
No one would know from his cancer-ridden body at fifty.
He told me "You'll be that thin in two months"
But I was "porky pig" to him
With added jelly rolls
Though we really did try.
No matter how many awards,
his esophagus was still torn,
Keeping a deep secret.
One day, I saw him go to his house
And two weeks later he was dead.
*I'm going to make you a good athelete
If it's the last thing I do.*
And it was... sort of.
Only tall, thin girls could compete,
the next lady said,
glaring at me disapprovingly,
but no one knew I was dying.
Not even me.
I was still. too. fat.
It was a chilly day
When I threw the long black dress on
And nearly puked at the reflection looking back at me.
By two days after Christmas,
The anniversary of his death,
I could be thin just as he wanted
And fulfill his final wish.
Nothing is ever good enough.
Another year passed,
Filled with everything but carbs,
Proved to be an extraneous variable.
They thought they were helping.
Thought.
I thought about it for awhile
On my extremely long run
Fueled by 800 calories.
I thought about it.
As I stared at the half-digested food
and prepared for the next heave.
Maybe someday I'll think about it
In a skinnier body.
Maybe someday I'll be like him.
Thin.
Dead.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 9:16 PM UTC
They ran for days, he kept holding her hand,
They ran through the constant rain, the downpour,
Both of them soaked, clothes not of much use,
But she kept running with him, he was a promise of joy,
On the second day, she faltered, needed to go home,
*He waited.
Was patient.*
The sixth day of running, the rain never stopped,
She still had her white coat, grayed by the water,
He still had his black hood, frail from soaking,
He was tiring, losing his vision, she wasn’t pulling her weight,
He knew she could, he knew she had,
So he let go.
Unexpected.
She turned to him, “How could you do that, stop pulling.”
"I did it because I need to go where I am going,
I am a runner, and we all know that runners run,
So either run with me, or let me free for time,"
Squinting disapprovingly, she found a nice bench,
And sat.
“I’ll be here.”
She looked.
*At him.
As he ran.*
He left her vision, she left his, but as he ran,
He could only think of those angel wings beneath,
Those soft lighting eyes of hers, that perfect smile,
He thought of the body beneath, the heart beneath,
In his endurance-fed fatigue, he dreamed, and only dreamed,
Of her.
He came back round, his muscles having been warmed,
He came round, looking, searching desperately,
She was nowhere, she was hiding, she was gone.
“Beautiful! Where are you?! I need you, I still want you.”
“I am here. Look at all the friends I made. Aren’t they
beautiful?”
“Yes but-”
“No buts.”
“I’ve come.”
She turned her back to him.
He ran.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 12:38 AM UTC
it’s a rainy day
and all i can think of is
God watching me disapprovingly
brushing your pink soft feet
against my wet mouth and nostrils
entranced by the smooth curve of your arches
is that spiritual, i wonder
adoring their scent
admiring the cotton fluff
from your socks
white as angels
soft as indigo silk
floating like little puff clouds
on your shapely pinkish toes
your red nails
remind me of ****** daggers
while i bleed troupes of silvered tears upon them
a Christian sacrifice?
or is it
a Satanic Black Arts Ritual
wanting to feel them slit my skin
because i love you so much?
i devote myself
that you may be so kind
as to step carelessly upon my face
like a treading wheel
pushing in my eye sockets and lips
like stones in dirt
i get down on my knees
and prostrate myself
while you place a light of the world cross
around my neck
and carve an incandecent pentagram
on my skull
to sanctify
what shall i do with this
spontaneous impulse of spirits hunger
so ardent
am i dammed
to love so much
red angel?
will you extend your pointed toes towards me
to receive my tremulous lips
and cleansing tears?
i’m ever yours,
killer
queen of love and pain
Jun 4, 2018
Jun 4, 2018 at 4:14 PM UTC
You are the last one I should kiss.
Albeit, life can disapprovingly walk ahead,
And times may ruefully run amiss.
Exhausted and weak,
Our hands will slip away;
While the dust from my brow,
Will make your temples sway.
The terrible travesty of our lips.
You are the last one I should kiss.
When you close your light,
Against the thick tirelessness
Of the night ;
I feign,
I pretend I might,
Give up my world,
To simply hold you tight.
Against the tempestuous glee
Of my heart,
You and I, are nothing but art.
It would be too painful to miss,
This last chance,
Of our kiss.
Afar you live,
Impenetrable in the naivety of distance,
Miles separate,
Souls that unite at an instance.
I am too afraid,
To show you my love.
My insides are trembling cold,
Resembling a featherless dove.
Yet,
Nothing can parallel the warmth,
And the stubborn bliss,
Of the last one,
I should kiss.
With lighthearted words,
I wind up my thought.
Too many battles
I have ceaselessly fought.
But in your smile,
Victory is mine.
My head tilts against my shoulder,
In a frivolous incline.
Oh what a day dream!
What an impossible desire it is!
That you be the last one I should kiss.
Jan 1, 2017
Jan 1, 2017 at 11:33 AM UTC
calm yourself
drink that glass of water
this time don't assume that you are drowning
remember your childhood
how your 4 year old self is staring back at you
tell her she is worth it
rip the words out of your throat and free it from that prison
now don't assume that you are drowning
when you were young you were too fragile to make a stand
your hand trembles as the cold touch of a stranger's hand invades your skin
you realized you hate it when people touch you
you can't remember the first time you got cat called
but the words they said never left your brain since then
it repeats and repeats itself
without your permission
your father looks at you disapprovingly
when you first learned how to look pretty in a dress
you are trying to tell him that it doesn't matter
any kind clothing that will cover my skin is no exception
that many times over when im wearing my school uniform
is the majority where strangers that i happen to pass by at streets tried to touch my body
your mother explains that you have to keep it safe
but you know that safe is an illusion
that you will never be assured of your safety
for as long as men have eyes like daggers
and words that rolls off their tongue like its meant to bring you down
you are underwater now
their words will always reach you
but your voice will invade so much space
you would learn how to fight back
someday you will stop finding comfort in trying to drown your sorrows
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 4:09 AM UTC
A calling-crow-cold sky ceilings the world,
Lowering the horizon to itself
All silvery and grey upon the fields
Of pale, exhausted, dry-corn-stalk summer
The earth is tired, the air is cold, the dawn
False-promises nothing but an early dusk
As calling-cold-crows crowd the world with noise,
Loud-gossiping from tree to ground to sky
Soon falling frosts and fields of ice will fold
Even those fell, foolish fowls into the depths
Of dark creek bottoms where dim ancient oaks
Hide darkling birds from wild blue northern winds
Crows squawk of Advent disapprovingly,
For Advent-autumn drifts to Christmastide
When all the good of the seasonal year
Then warms and charms the house, the hearth, the heart
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 4:05 PM UTC
I passed the gym with Rolly
he was talking
about his weekend
with the parents
and how his dad
wanted to go fishing
but the mother-in-law came
and that was it
but I was thinking of Yiska
I'd not seen her since Friday
and she hadn't
been there
when I got off
the school bus
and she usually
was waiting eager-eyed
maybe she was ill
I thought
maybe she'd forgotten
to meet the bus
and Rolly was still yapping
about his gran
when Yiska came
out of the the gym
with another girl
Yiska smiled
and touched my arm
and said
I was late
I missed
your bus coming in
the other girl
walked off
down the passageway
but Rolly stood there
watching
hands in pockets
gawking disapprovingly
see you lunchtime
on the field?
I asked
sure will
she said smiling
squeezing my arm
and she went off
in her P.E. gear
short green skirt
yellow top
and as she walked away
with her swaying hips
I thought it was my birthday.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 2:37 AM UTC
The girl steps onstage.
She picks up the microphone,
looking at the hundreds of people sitting
in front of her.
The music plays
softly in the background.
The young girl opens her mouth,
her heart.
She sends a message,
her words drifting sweetly through the auditorium,
to the hundreds of people sitting
in front of her.
The girl steps into school.
She looks around at the hundreds of people walking
in front of her.
She runs a hand
through her
dark, inky hair,
smoothing it out.
She remembers
checking her outfit,
her hair,
her smile.
Scared,
that she wasn’t good
enough,
pretty
enough
for the hundreds of people walking in front of her.
The girls steps into her room.
She is alone.
She doesn’t have to pretend
for the hundreds of people who were
in front of her.
The girl steps into her kitchen.
Her mother looks at her disapprovingly.
The young girl sighs,
aware of her mistakes.
The hundreds of expectations her mother has for her
are too much.
Is she a disappointment?
The girls stands in
the shadows of
her older sister.
Her beautiful,
talented,
older sister.
The girl tries
to step out of
the shadows,
but everytime,
she gets
engulfed again.
The girl steps outside,
gazing at the hundreds of stars spread
out in front of her.
She closes her eyes,
wishing for the hundredth time,
hoping
that this time,
her wish will come true.
The girl steps into school again.
She looks around at the hundreds of people walking
in front of her.
She stands with her hundreds of friends,
holding on tightly.
She is not ready to let go.
She will never be ready to let go.
The girl walks with her crush.
She gazes up at him
the way she gazes up at
the hundreds of stars.
She opens her journal
and flips to an empty page.
Her pencil bursts on the paper,
as she writes about
the hundreds of people,
hundreds of stars,
hundreds of friends,
one love.
The girls smiles for the hundredth time.
She knows the smile is fake,
but nobody else does.
She tries to stay happy,
because her friends happiness
is more important
than hers.
The girl is like a
balloon.
Once somebody lets go
of the string,
she drifts
farther and farther
until she is
gone.
She needs her hundreds of friends
to hold tightly to
her string,
so she doesn’t
float away.
The girls steps outside of the schools.
She waits
for her mother to come,
gripping a test
with 90% written
in red ink.
She smiles excitedly,
hoping her mother will be proud.
One of her hundreds of expectation.
The girl reaches home
and sits in her room,
alone again.
She wishes for her hundreds of friends
that she isn’t ready to let go of.
The girl decides to do what she does best.
She pulls out a pencil
and opens her journal to a fresh page,
and begins to write:
“The girl steps onstage.
She picks up the microphone,
looking at the hundreds of people sitting
in front of her.”
Sep 23, 2017
Sep 23, 2017 at 3:35 PM UTC