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rose14195 Nov 2014
Oh Jayden
as the ice breaks under your feet
you cut your wrist holding on to the broken shards
Oh Jayden
as your open your mouth to scream
your fist mash your teeth in
Oh Jayden  
as you live in fear of tomorrow
you forget today
Oh Jayden
I don't know what to say
you changed
Oh Jayden
You are starting to fall
when along the way did you loose it all
Oh Jayden
I'm sorry I cant catch you as you fall
I'm sorry for pushing you off
Oh Jayden
I'm sorry I cant heal the scars
bring back your sister, or resurrect your mom
Oh Jayden
you are feeling so small
why did i steal it all
Riot Nov 2014
my friend jayden
i used to love him
but now...
i don't know who i'm loving
this person changed
somehow
i thought it was just a mood
but now he's sinning in his anger
i don't know my friend jayden anymore
i wish that i could help him

my friend jayden
needs all the prayers in the world
i pray for him
but it doesn't matter if i can't see his hurt
my friend jayden scars me with the amount of hurt that's going on inside
i just hope and pray
that he will be free from his hurt
in time
Brynn Champney Jun 2010
A baby from Burundi sits next to me today.
He coos and drinks and swallows his mother’s milk.
His father speaks Swahili. Smiles, tells me that his last son
Is going to grow old in Rochester, NY,
Where I sit in a white-walled waiting room, watching
Mothers drag their babies by the armpits to be weighed.

A boy with braided beads holds up four fingers and tells me he is five.
He is too skinny. His pants are sagging and his iron is low.
His mother takes his vegetable checks, stuffs them into the back pocket of her jeans.
What the little **** needs is two percent milk, she says,
Her gold hoops fluttering.

Her son struggles with the small wooden chair he is carrying.
It drags along the carpet, hitting the high spots, and his tiny biceps flinch.
He sits, facing me, while a name is called. And another.
Another woman’s son hands me a book and waits.
He is watching my face and I watch his mother kiss her boyfriend in the first row seats.
He tucks his chin to his chest when I ask his name. Whispers, tells me Jayden.

First page. What color is Elmo, Jayden?
Shoulders shrugging. His lower lip, puckered out and innocent.
What color is he, Jayden?

The color of Jayden’s skin slaps me across the heart when he says he doesn’t know.
He was born in Rochester, NY,
With trash bags and Burger King wrappers wrapped around the fence
That separates his house from the street on which he will grow old
Too soon.
He starts kindergarten in the fall and I tell him Elmo is red, like his t-shirt.
Like his mother’s fingernails.
Like the tomatoes and bell peppers and beets he has never seen.

A girl who went to my High School carries in her youngest child
Who is old enough to walk, but wobbles.
She calls her daughter “thunder-thighs” instead of Jazmyne
And strips off her shoes. Her belt. Her gold bracelets.
The scale says Jazmyne is too heavy for food assistance.
The state says her mother isn’t poor enough for welfare.
The girl I used to know leaves without her daughter’s shoes or the food checks she came for.

In conversations of pretension
We talk about first and third world.
Pretend that America is the land of second chances
Where a baby from Burundi can grow old in cashmere sweaters,
Even when his parents couldn’t pay.

The father who speaks Swahili looks at his shiny watch and his family’s vegetable checks.
Smiles. Tells me his last son is going to grow old and full
In Rochester, NY.
1st place, University of Rochester Medical Center's Creative Excellence Contest (2008)
Jayden, look here.
Put down the beer
Even though you've no courage
To keep someone near
Jayden, look up.
I know that you’re stuck,
And you feel there’s no place,
For you to get luck.
Jayden don’t look back.
Keep going down that track,
And don’t you dare come back.
For you have gone too far
For your heart to start to crack.
Luna Aug 2017
grey white water droplets played peek a boo amongst the
tips of the trees in the skyline.
tickling their tops with soft gusts of wind. weaving in and out like a miniature vortex. it was peaceful. it was calming. there were no rustling of animals. not even the birds made peeps. the sky seemed to shadow the earth of all living. the white blanket hugged the land, ******* it dry of occupation. Jayden stood in the center of its mouth. A dream like state engulfed her mind. Her thoughts obsolete. Everything seemed divergent. Her footsteps echoed as she  walked along the concrete. She looked upwards again  - this time noticing the gold emerging .  How could the sky canopy such beauty in nothing. No color, no sound, no taste.
Tears pour out every minute....
It seems like all would be better if I just faded away. It felt like the Earth's upside down and I am  the only one standing straight.
       No matter what I did, I couldn't just join the world.
When I finally got the grasp of things, I felt weird. I looked like another person when standing in front of the mirror.
        I felt like this when I get back home from a long day at work.
Reason?
I don't like the Job.
I don't like the People.
I don't like being a star.

Then... I finally met 'Jayden'
We dated for a while.
Not six months.
Not six years.
For ten years.
I stand, but she doesn’t speak. It isn’t because she doesn’t want to, she just can’t.

She's “asleep”,

but I know that isn't it.

I know we came to this hospital because they couldn't “fix” her at the other one.

This is the fifth time her heart has seized, I know this is the last time I’ll see her “alive”, but I can't speak myself.

I'm embarrassed and awkward;

    And I hate myself for it.

I don't tell her I love her, I don't tell her it's okay if she leaves, I don't say goodbye.

    And I hate myself for it.

Mama says she can hear us, but I know she's trying to make it better. Jayden accepts her statement indifferently. I look at him and plead for him to say something first.

To say goodbye, to say anything because I don't want to be the first.

Mama asks if I don't speak because I'm heartbroken. I tell her that's it,

because if I do tell her, I will accept and acknowledge the fact that I hate myself for it.

I want to say something,

     I want her to hear me,

          I want to hear her laugh,

                I want to say something,

                     I want her to hug me and say it will be better tomorrow,

                           I want to say something.

But I can’t. And I hate myself for it.

Because I know her soul has left and this is an empty shell that is only “alive” because of that stupid machine that keeps talking.

That stupid machine that beeps.

     And beeps.

           And beeps.

It will forever be imprinted within me, with the smell of that bleak room, along with that hate and bitterness. That doesn’t even measure to that stupid soulless self-love of me.

That stupid hatred that bubbles like a bathtub overflowing if I even think of her and how brutally big-headed I was.

The problem is that I don’t hate her, I hate me and my elite mindset that is egotistical and so incredibly egocentric.

So vain, so incredibly vain I am.

I’m horrible.

      And I hate myself for it.

Then we leave and I didn’t even say goodbye!
Emmennarr Apr 2017
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I run down David Avenue
I try to not stare at the attractions
They catch my eye, thrown off guard

I continue down Alan Street
Others keep posture as a chicken runs rampid
I feel like an intruder in a street of gold
What place is there for me here?

I turn down Jacob Road
Tourists seem to address it normally
But something tells me
There's a reason it's not a street

I waddle down Jayden Lane
The people seem so collected
They're official but comedic
They have a routine

I stride down Gage Drive
I seem to collect some composure
It's a barren place
Its simplicity leads to its charm

I start down Gabe Way
Now I seem to stand out positively
Although others can't remember
They observe every movement

I know that for how far down I may fall,
These paths return me to home
I rely on them
Homeless, they are my home
I need them

Thanks
Johnny Noiπ Jan 2019
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— The End —