"rantings" poems
If I get lost, promise you'd leave me be
Let me walk alone in my circles
I'll find my way back...almost instinctively
Through looping thoughts and scribbles
If I should trip, promise you'd let me fall
Scrape my knee and scream a voiceless scream
Weight of the universe may seem crushing to shoulders so small
I'll walk it off and regain newfound steam
If I show signs of buckling, promise you'd let me collapse into nothing
Let me fold into myself...into an unnoticeable speck
There is solace in this space when the walls are caving
Soon I would reinvent and renew from that wreck
If I suffer a cut, promise you'd just let me bleed
Let the black of my soul gush out
Within it I would find the seed
To which all of my rantings are about
If I should begin to write, promise you'd read my scrawls
Take them as they are and not to heart
Just thoughts versus words that mean much or nothing at all
They'd stitch me anew when I start to break apart
If I keep losing myself, promise that you'd let me be
The circles I tread are very much predictable
They'd always lead me around... Don't treat me differently
Just stay where you are... I'll come back round, fresh and able...
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 9:47 PM UTC
It was well trained cats in the cattery calling, pats on the back, back door, kicked in, mooring boats on the mooring in the morning and the phone call, cost cut, cold calling, and we're falling, falling, we're falling in love.
My best friends are criminals, and the jail cell crying is trying at times but trying sometimes feels tiring. The tire track tiling is abysmal, freewheeling in reverie, revving engines readily, sitting, settling and stirring imaginary cups of tea until eternity gives up delinquently.
I fail to recognise the narcissist in me until the inadequate rantings fall of the page at me. I want to be free, I want to be me, I want solidarity and I want that cup of tea, I want patriarchy, I want matrimony, I want monogamy and none of this is hyperbole. I have no apologies, especially not for the words I string together so irrationally. What else could you ask of me?
What else indeed, if I can't be naked I can't be free, if I alter the way I write I relinquish personality.
It doesn't seem right to me.
Dada is too crass for me, I need a cult of spontaneity. The English language is too brash to be...
Philosophical ideology and the books I read, all tell lies to me, are all absurd you see, I embrace the monotony, let the waves of the sea wash over me. I let the dictionary pages fall off the quay, like that moth on me, like the sloth i've been and cloth on screens. A dead dog can't scratch it's fleas, but to appease the beast we must first release, all creativity and return to being.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 7:34 PM UTC
Kanye West visited Trump
At the White House, and man, what a scene!
His words were bouncing off all the walls,
Just like a ball in a pinball machine.
His disjointed rantings and ravings
Made little if any sense.
He ****** up to the president
More than even Michael Pence.
Rambling about the 13th Amendment,
The Unabomber, and then trap doors,
He ended the strange concoction of thoughts
With a weird reference to thirteen floors.
To him, Trump is a father figure.
To prove how much he is fan,
Whenever he wears his MAGA cap,
It makes him feel like Superman.
Illegal guns, tasting fine wines,
And liberals controlling blacks
Through racism? You wanted to say,
Calm down, Kanye. Try to relax.
One thing is certain: We can see
From trying to follow his monologue threads,
That Kanye needs some serious help.
Kanye, please get back on your meds!
-by Bob B (10-14-18)
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 1:08 PM UTC
For what does the hummingbird weep?
For the lost and forsaken souls?
For the trepidation of mortals?
For the embers of brisk passion?
For the lashes of the night warden's whip?
For the eternal brace of hurt?
For the rantings of a madman?
Or is what the hummingbird weeps for not of this nature?
Could it be that the nature is of a nature from which nature's motherly embrace accepts?
Could the hummingbird weep for the mild tranquility of said mother's embrace?
Or for the warm glow of a homely flame?
Or for the amber shine of dancing stones?
Or for the soft brush of lovers' lips?
Or for the faint cry of a newborn in the arms of such lovers?
Or for the quiet persistence of solidarity?
Or for the peace of acquainting serenity?
Truly, the gentle tears of the hummingbird
Are born of a passion true to mine own
For these gentle tears of the hummingbird
Are the same as the trails of ink that roll off my page
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 5:26 PM UTC
I have vowed to no more eat that which harms,
And to the best of my abilities,
I do so.
I see no difference between the cat you pet
And the lamb you slaughter.
I see no difference between the dog you play with
And the calf you tear from its mother.
I see no difference between the pet birds in cages
And the male chicks thrown in the grinder at birth;
They will produce no eggs, we have no use for their lives.
I believe it is not the role of man
To deem whom should retain their lives
And whom should die for a moments self-gratification.
Vegetarianism is wonderful,
Every little bit helps; less humans eating meat,
means reduced CO2 emmissions
and less world wide poverty,
The grain that could feed a hundred hungry mouths
Is not used to produce single burger patty,
For a single peckish man.
But drinking the milk of a cow,
Eating cheese and eggs
All contributes directly to the meat industry.
Dairy industry is veal industry;
Dairy industry; milk, eggs, cheese all supports and prolongs the practice
Of killing and eating children.
You ask that we respect your choices;
but you do not understand that your "choices",
Your learned eating habits,
Your probing questions of "what do you eat then?!"
And your arguments of "But meat just tastes so good"
Are directly offensive to all we stand for,
And all we fight against.
To me, arguing that the taste of meat,
Makes the living conditions of these animals ok,
Is a kin to the argument that slavery is fine,
Because the work gets done quicker if you can use a whip.
It is a kin to the idea that **** isn't that bad,
Because it at least feels good for the ******
It is a kin to the comment that women are inferior,
Because men could beat them in a fist fight.
You will instantly think I am radical in my views,
You will try to brush them off as the rantings of a crazed vegan
Or you will stop reading
Because you really do not want to see what I have to say.
But I give you only the truth as i plainly see it.
If you must eat meat,
Hunt for it and **** it yourself,
Let it live a real life first,
And respect that for you to eat,
It has died.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 5:34 PM UTC
All the world's a *********
And all the lads and ladettes mere defecators,
Gratifying oozing exits and entrances;
And one man perforce enacts too many roles,
His acts being seven deaths. D'abord, the baby,
******** and ******* on his mummy's frock.
Then, the errant truant with his rucksack
And pock-marked wanker's face, creeping like death
Foul-trouser'dly to school. Next a teenager,
Panting like mad dog, with an oozing pustule
Dripping oe'r his girlfriend's pubics. Then a hoodie,
Full of strange oaths, and dressed up like a freak,
Lacking in honour, decency, and up for aggro,
Seeking the respect of loathsome peers
Even on the street corner. And then the adult
With bulging beer belly, and ample burgers stuff'd,
With eyes dulled by unfulfilled promises,
Mortgaged to the hilt, and indebted to Visa,
And so he wastes his life. The sixth age dawns
Before he knows it, bald futility,
With ****** in pocket, five quid a pill,
His youthful hopes well fuck'd, the world too much
For his ignorance, and his vain butch rantings
Reverting soon to teenage curses, coughs
And tobacco'd wheezings. Last we see him,
Ending a pointless and useless existence,
Clutching to his piss-stained Zimmer frame,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans pension fund.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 4:54 PM UTC
Its 1:30 in the morning. And I’ve begun to think of the rarities and adversities in life, which shape
us into the hollow ghosts called humanity. Machines that listen, and obey. Becoming slaves of a
mundane existence as we go about our days. Wake. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. With the slight possibility
of variation that may never come to fruition. Why must we consume, but not provide? We
multiple uncontrollably, take from this earth, yet never seem to substantially give back. Something
so beautiful and yet so abused. To give, may be to take away from ourselves. But is selflessness so
horrible? To make the life of another better, at the small expense of ourselves should be but a
small price. Yet the few whom know this and continue to give out of the goodness of their hearts,
are scoffed at by the selfish majority. Why must we, the hollow ghosts of humanity, make
decisions for whatever objective we may have, in whatever situation should be presented, and
then complain of the results or the consequences should they not go accordingly? Rather than
vowing to improve on the matter of contempt? The decision was made, and cannot be
changed. Why fret so much, over something that is now unchangeable? Why not simply decide
within one’s self to, when presented with a choice of a similar nature, make a different
decision? We, being the hollow ghosts we are, dwell so frequently on the past. Thinking so hard,
as if to change events of times long behind us. We think, as if to comprehend our very
nature. And in the absence of the desired understanding and/or enlightenment, we complain
about our very existence. As if anything and everything in our daily lives may hold precedence
over the very fact of our existence. As if to curse our Creator for making us such simple creatures
not able to grasp the complexity or diversity of His design. Rather than taking existence itself for
face-value, and enjoying the many fruits of this beautiful earth, we **** ourselves with selfishness
and passiveness. And we, the hollow ghost of humanity, will ultimately be our own miraculous
yet untimely downfall.
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 8:01 AM UTC
Sir!
With a rod of iron he ruled.
Indignant arrogant.
A cursed teacher.
A ******* king of cruelty.
Only king tyrannical.
And aged dinosaur.
Respect he required.
Needed.
Desired.
He cared not.
For egotistical ******* was he.
If you were small in personality.
Your life, he'd make a perfect misery.
In **** expulsion.
His **** would hit the wall.
Along with loaded blackboard rubber.
Papers, they would hit the floor.
As he'd chuck you out the door.
Would chuck his rabid rantings all around the room.
The anally extirpate master of raw doom.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 12:13 PM UTC
"There is something in you"
"Do not tell me it's the state of my mind that
Crave for meaningful commitments
Do not tell me, our doors are mutually exclusive,
That cannot open to same pathway"
I am in the make and modes of that solitary *****
Who does not know what is the gift of the given moment.
Who does not know whether the next breath is life or not having it anymore.
I am the ***** living life on the edges when not in the fringes!
With desultory realms of engagements,
Let me avoid that growing sarcastic curve on your face
When "my passions are flimsy"; why define the adulations any lower!
So my 'distant untouched enigma';
Do not be dismayed at this callous, rantings of mine;
I have done with many futile 'serious' talkathons...
Ignore me as a silly, frivolous thought
Flew in and darted away in an afternoon siesta
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 10:14 PM UTC
♠ ♠ ♠
Pseudo-Oriental visions
Haiku, Tanka, exotic terms
Vapid New Age vibe-transmissions
proliferating eastern germs…
Anarchistic thought collages
Existential lacerations
Nihilistic heart-massages
Incoherent lamentations,
Communism on a mission,
grievance-mongering, stewed in hate;
pounding Fascist fusion/fission
chanting harshly “ours the state”,
Hymns to Gods who choked on *****
undertaken in overdose;
rocks that never rose to comet
rolling – but ending comatose,
Hipster ironies, tongue in chic
Metro-wimps who feign the normal,
Redneck rantings up the creek
semaphoric, semi-formal,
matron’s maudlin observations,
motivational hypnosis,
(sentimental medications
offered prior to diagnosis),
coldly abstract neo-nonsense
read (by dullards) as cutting edge,
letters void of correspondence;
well-trimmed words’ linguistic hedge.
Climate whining (tried untrue)
with eco-prophecies warning doom,
Wiccans and tree-sprites trying to
undo the curse and lift the gloom,
Feministic tribal ranting,
Race-complaining, agitation,
GLBT gallivanting –
all are blights upon our nation.
Boring modernist excess,
(no longer daring – formulaic)
confounds – yet never can address
what’s wrong, and so becomes prosaic.
Lists like this are perhaps the worst;
another symptom of our times:
we who are woefully unversed
in rhythmic complaining that rhymes.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 11:58 AM UTC
My incoherent rantings upon this white,
tainted by my virulent thoughts expelling out.
I leap at echoes of what may have been cognitively
expelled but never given true form.
*"I just lingered my mind in the air like a net catching
stray speculations that were never musing,*
I never understood why infuriated wording
was not given form, why I lingered outside my
window like a peeping tom. Waiting for those
Drifting inconsolable lost thoughts never given form.
Some were so sullen a tear would edge closer to
my yearning of falling but then I'd catch and devour
it. Swallowing that sorrow to feel that pain needed
to ink better vocabulary then I had penned before.
"I hear things in the night, feverish dreams of inscribing,
I understand my conclusion of what I am spilling in
irrational contemplations, that wield meaning of
what should lucidly be realized within my words.
But my ink is waved upon as to complex in thought.
"I am a man with no water yet I am drowning,
Can I be enthusiastic in my wonderings of captured words,
expelled but never used. I hoard them within me, so others
may not take what I thought what I took from the breeze.
I think I'm cognitive, but others think I'm rabid in inducing.
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 3:22 PM UTC
Don't give your words to the blind deaf spirits.
With eyes they simply don't use.
They couldn't care for your naggy rantings.
They ignore you; call you Katy Kaboom.
Hardly worth the look,
they are crust beneath trashcans.
Walking off while you breathe.
I find it hard to look at people, who refuse to listen to me.
Don't treat it kind to by waved away,
cast as the alien kind.
Don't waste a spit on carcass ungraced with noblesse oblige of a man.
'Man-kind' should be a revelation,
but dumb is the man with abused to his senses.
Only fairy tales may glue dumb and kind as one.
I've seen that only wise men may not be criticized.
For only kind men, wise men, will treat a woman wise.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 7:59 PM UTC
Pristine
the feeling of my feelings being clean
if you've never needed cleansing
never been truly *****
then you won't know what I mean
if you've never sniffed your rent money
to forget the failure you mirror has seen
then you don't know how mean
being a filthy version of yourself can seem
impossible to overcome
needing solutions to problems you see
tragedy your life has trouble hiding
the stealing of your ability
to live life comfortably
stolen by your shortcomings
I am *****
and scrubbing the ******* skin
scared the filth will sink in
trying to wash it off
and all to often
rubbing the dirtiness in
nothing is pretty when your life hurts
there's no new beginning
when you feel you’re at an end
and always asking the question
would it truly matter
if I end me
I often offend the healthy
with my rantings of the hell that's inside me
anxiety writhing in my mind
my mental health on a steady decline
I light fires in self destruction
hoping to burn it all down
and find the light hiding on the other side
true I mostly make mistakes when my hate’s feeding
but mistakes tend to teach
if you reach for their meaning
so be humble and don't judge me
you'd ******* crumble
carrying what I carry inside me
but I'm still standing
maybe teetering on the fence
in all my decisions of
needs I have versus my inhibitions
but it takes all my strength
just to get out of bed in the morning
and be me
needing to feel pristine
Apr 27, 2012
Apr 27, 2012 at 5:00 PM UTC
I've seen the work of the best minds
of previous generations scuttled and
passed by like garbage in a dumpster
the angel headed hispters
have gone the way of the dodo
their legacy nothing more than
some printed word and fading images
replaced, for a time
by the high energy punks
fighting the machinery that
keeps us enslaved to the grind
and the money that they own
and use against us
buy buy buy or you’re not
doing your part!
but alas
their legacy is nothing more
than safety pinned faces and scratched
records discarded in bargain bins
replaced, indefinitely by apathy;
global apathy
pockets of resistance remain,
but they are ground down,
shut down before their fire
can be seen
a new movement is needed
angry music, vitriolic poems
revolutionary diatribes
printed in meatspace,
where it affects real people
not as ones and zeros
in blue lcd glow
ignored as rantings of
crazy people;
demonstrations, pranks,
hoaxes, calling out the
powers that be to own up to
their actions and decisions
a pulling back of the curtain
to show the gears and cogs
that make it all work
but who shall lead this
revolution?
not I, I’ve got TV to watch
and things to buy,
and alcohol to numb all the rest
May 19, 2010
May 19, 2010 at 11:16 AM UTC
Subtle twists and turns
Make my thoughts tangle
Unsure of what hail Mary affirmation will redeem
What little intellect inferior artists contain
I am not being cruel
Or even over judgemental
Just honest. Truthful.
Prescreened, pre-cleaned
You did not pass muster
Left on the stoop to await another bus
Perhaps one more tolerant of shabby verse
Hopefully a few extra seats will be open to house your assumptions
Leaving ample space for your empty, arrogant rantings
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 9:53 PM UTC
“keep your dementia well organized”
it spreads to the outward edges like camera film alit,
burning inside outward, fast and quick,
the mutterings dispersed in voices
precisely loud enough to not be distinctly heard,
but perfect for your
active concerning consternation
you summon different voices for every occasion cause you
keep your dementia tools well organized
order is the successful methodology for maintaining
what otherwise appears and truly is, irrational rantings,
nuggets of chicken, you’re too chicken to loudly scream,
lest someone solves the riddles you are raving
it’s insane to keep your crazy so well managed,
it’s sane to keep your crazy so well managed,
it’s crazy to stay sane, when your demented nature,
is dewy decimal handy for steady decimation
you laugh while writing this,
recognizing a well organized personality disordered,
is the key to success at anything you do,
like being crazy cool
you, still crazy after all these years,
do not lack for historical perspective
oops! typo, hysterical perspective,
old tricks for new doctors, renewable energy
never fails to confuse and amuse,
hard work keeping yourself entertained
at the medical professions expense
which is why I keep my dementia well organized
Mar 12, 2019
Mar 12, 2019 at 9:59 AM UTC
The Joy Of Unknowing
Ah! To unknow the sun
Exploding into molten gold
As it dances upon your hair.
Unknow your perfume
That lingers forever in the air.
Unknow the orchestra
Playing relentlessly in my heart.
Unknow your smile, your laugh
And the funny things you do
All the infectious parts of you.
Ah! To unknow the touch we nearly had
And the joy we imagined
Would fill our innocent lies one day.
Unknow the dream
And change it back into a mere thought
That was never afforded an existence
Except in the rantings of a /fu:l/
Ah! Ah! To unknow the fear
Of losing you
Unknow the futility
Of wanting to hold you near.
But, how can you unknow
Something you never really knew?
Or feel decimated by the loss
Of something that was never yours?
Oh! The fact of not knowing you
Became the only part of me I remember.
I remember knowing it would never be,
I think you also knew, didn’t you?
Oh! Oh! I realise we cannot go back
And unknow what we have seen
And been and become.
We cannot chip away
At the sculpture,
Which is our life.
Cannot take out the bits
We do not want to be anymore-
It is too late.
I am with you
And you with me
In this dream
For eternity.
(Gerry Aldridge ©2016)
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
I wonder if when Thomas Jefferson scrawled out the Declaration he could see the world that I have come to know.
I wonder if he would understand the nation that would blossom from under his inflammatory words.
Would he know that the world would never be so simple as black and white if only because a racial lawsuit might come from it?
Would he see the world burn up in a digital fire that no nostalgia would ever be able to quench?
Would he know the society that would simultaneously spew rantings of "You're special" and "You are never going to be right enough to live here"?
How about that war that taught the people that it's okay to hate those who fight so that you can love another day?
Or even the world that has severed so deeply within its own walls that you can only hold on to you hearts and hope that might not be severed too?
I wonder what this man could have been declaring so seriously that he would send men to war for it, just to have the papers he and his dear friends were writing on be the shield that politicians might use to prevent their fallout.
Freedom is not objective. And Subjectively speaking, this freedom we've been given comes with about ten thousand terms and conditions that none of us are going to read anyway because this is Amurica and we don't do that here.
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 10:46 PM UTC
Rantings
now I'm hoping not to offend anyone
but this has been a really bad day,
and I'm fixin to climb up the *** of someone
don't really care if you wanna hear what I say
my old dog crapped in the hallway
looked at me and gave me this smile,
she said I'm gonna do this all day
leaving you pile upon pile
the mechanic said my vehicle was broken
to fix it will cost you more than its worth,
he smiled so I thought I might smoke him
pound his *** down to the earth
my girlfriend said I was crazy
I wanted more than she had,
from that point my mind went kinda hazy
a 12 pack of Pabst and I'm mad
Now I'm trying to explain my bad humor
understand why I talk like a fool,
feels like I have a brain tumor
crap, I almost fell off this stool
tomorrow I'll have a need for a head shrink
I probably won't remember a thing,
but right now give me more hard ***** to drink
some for you too cause I'm gonna sing
well this is my work of wild whining
I need me someone to blame,
I've been kicked to the curb to drunk for dinning,
I was a good guy, I'll stay the same.
Gomer LePoet...
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 4:12 AM UTC
Rantings II
don't wanna sound like an ingrate,
but what have you done for me today
you promised me this magnificent dinner,
then threw a box of macaroni my way
you promised me an evening of hot lovin,
you would wear me out and bring me lots of beer
then when I leaned over to kiss you,
you handed me a ******* and said, here
suddenly you were no longer in the mood,
you had a headache and cramps were here too
I asked how could this have happened so soon,
all you could say to me was “hey **** you”
all thru the rest of the night all you did was *****
I tried to hide from you in the corner of my den
but you even followed me in there, raising a fuss,
said how can you live like this, in this dam pig pen
I looked around at my guitars and my laptop,
had all my music books stacked up real nice
well yes, there were some candy wrappers,
and a day old bowl of pudding made from rice
you said I was totally useless, a useless **** in fact,
I coward even deeper now, as you told me I was dumb
how in the hell could you ever have married me,
I rolled into the fetal pose, ******* on my thumb
2 days later I arose, with stubble on my face,
I stumble into the john, and into the mirror I stared
it seemed to take forever for the focus of my eyes,
I jumped back in horror, the picture made me scared
holy crap, what was that, I heard my voice crackle,
sounding like a rusty gate, WD40 should be used
and when I took a second look, afraid what I would see,
sunken in and swollen, looked like my eyes were bruised
today is gonna be a different day, this is my intention,
going to shower, shave and put on my poet's hat
it is so quiet now, think she has packed and left
gonna miss her a lot, hope she took her ******* cat
Gomer LePoet...
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 4:05 AM UTC
Even when the sun is absent to cast it's light
Still some shadow remains close in sight
Moving as I do just at slightly different time
And to my feet does it not align
It is no shadow but an echo of maybe
Unsure for its presence is so hard to see
Perhaps a spirit following my every stride
Nonetheless a friend in who I so often confide
Together we roam both night and day
And not too long is it ever away
For in my sight does it choose to be
Together as one in serene unity
Though at times torches come a blaring
And fear overcomes this spirit ever caring
So whilst out in public does its body remain
Within my thought does its life remain
That night it was you who light upon me did give
To show others how much you could get away with
As if to your mischief not only an eye did I blind
But care not for how much you did me undermine
And though your sins did I forgive so hastily
Your gloating did my friend and I effect most angrily
And though I could not your presence abandon
My companion fled with all speed it could fathom
I always welcomed you no matter the consequence
And fight did I always your fights too intense
But that night as you shared space with my soul
You took on a rather monstrous looking role
As if expecting me to do your every chore
Your egotistical rantings sent it right out the door
So now if my kindness is once more disrespected
Will your requests forever be rejected
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 1:59 PM UTC
She sings from her wrist
And watches in marvel as the lyrics flow from her
Pulsing to her own personal beat
And with each opening, she harmonizes
Creating a chorus of voices
To drown out the ones in her head
It’s beautiful, artistic, natural
It’s filled with emotion that she bottles
And she lets it bubble forth
In red notes on soft, fleshy paper
Her thoughts finally able to find a release
Through something sharp and physical
Because her own voice is broken
Hidden, under a mountain of lies
And drowned under a sea of promises long forgotten
Devoured by a nightmare of regrets
And threatened by mistrust
She sew her mouth shut
And she covers her hands over her ears,
Stubbornly, as I try my hardest
To let my own melody slip in
Intermingle, and rearrange
to something softer, calmer
to sooth those painful voices screaming from her skin
I try to sing louder, she has to hear
It has to reach her, it must
Through late nights and dawnless mornings
Through adrenaline filled marathons home
And patient rantings to burst through the stitches
I want to quell the tempest of her mind
But my voice is growing raspy
Each song burning my throat raw
To where I can only manage a whisper
And once again I can’t be heard
And her ensemble crescendos full force
A fortissimo against my pianissimo
And I can only beg for those hands
To become weary and slip from their vice grip,
From her determination to not listen
To hear my quiet humming, because that’s all I can do
And hope that happiness will take her by the hand
And have her dancing to my quiet tune.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 1:18 AM UTC
You don't know.
You can't understand my pain,
You simply can't.
Why?
You say I have the perfect life--
From the outside, I guess I do,
No.
You cannot understand how everyday of my life I am
Scolded because
Parents are stressed out with finance,
People,
Me--
Especially me.
You don't know the pain of watching your cute,
Sweet,
Little brother-- autistic--
Struggle through school with "friends" who act like fiends.
You have never heard the heartbreaking sound
When his anxiety grows and he cries out
In his own pain:
"Why? Why do I have autism? Why can't I do it?
I'm so dumb I'm so dumb
I'm
So
Dumb!"
And then Mom and Dad are over there,
Their own tired selves,
Trying unsuccessfully to comfort him.
You don't know the pain of an older sister,
Beautiful,
Talented,
Everything you feel you lack in,
Fall into the wrong crowd,
Now contemplating suicide.
You loved her the whole time,
Even through all her hate and addiction.
And you don't know the pain of family ignoring you,
Like they did me--
Like I didn't get enough at school,
Never being able to tell friends from fakes,
So biting my tongue and putting on a foolish, lying smile for just one more day--
One more day.
But there is no one to lie to--
There is none here left to ask questions,
Even the simple ones like
"How are you?"
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 12:08 AM UTC