Magic**

Read this to yourself.
Read it silently.
Don’t move your lips.
Don’t make a sound?
Listen to yourself.
Listen without hearing anything.
What a wonderfully weird thing, huh?

NOW MAKE THIS PART LOUD!
SCREAM IT IN YOUR MIND!
DROWN EVERYTHING OUT.
Now, hear a whisper.
A tiny whisper.

Now, read this next line in your best crotchety old man voice:

“Hello there sonny, does this town have a post office?”

Awesome! Who was that?
Whose voice was that?
Certainly not yours.

How do you do that?
How!?

Must be magic!!

Yesterday I looked at myself in the mirror
And although I tried to take the advice given to me by my therapist
I was unable to find a single thing I might even just tolerate about myself.
Instead, my mind and heart raced each other, trying to see who would win the prize of defeating me
as I scan my naked body for each and every inconsistency and insufficiency.

You see my first memory of self hatred comes from a place most people could not predict.
Imagine me at six years old standing in the shower, so proud of myself
For finally graduating from the bathtub I had associated with childhood.
I had just finished reading “Falling Up” by Shel Silverstein.
And out of the more than 400 poems by this poet one stuck to my brain
Like peanut butter on the roof of my mouth after eating a PB&J.

Now if you’ll forgive me for getting off track for just this moment
I’d like to read you this poem entitled “Scale.”

“If I could only see the scale,
I’m sure that it would state
That I’ve lost ounces...maybe pounds
Or even tons of weight.
‘You’d better eat some pancakes-
You’re skinny as a rail.’
I’m sure that’s what the scale would say…
If only I could see the scale.”

If you’ve ever read a poem by Shel Silverstein you’d know that each of them
Are accompanied by an illustration.
This particular poem is positioned next to a drawing of a person standing on a scale
Unable to see the number because their stomach juts out just far enough
To block their view of the information that scale is providing.
I remember looking down at my naked body
Only to realize that i also could not see my feet.
My childish, growing, prepubescent tummy obstructed my view of my toes.
And I remember thinking for the first time, “Wow, I am fat.”
And that same feeling has followed me throughout these subsequent years.
Throughout elementary, middle, high school and beyond.
My dysmorphic perspective has been a shadow of which I could not shake.
And try as I might, deep down I knew that this was my fate.

I started restricting what I ate starting in 6th grade.
-I counted calories lost and gained and measured my size by the tightness of a tank top.
I watched videos of people like Eugenia Cooney,
and inspired myself through the photos I saw of
Emaciated girls kept alive by feeding tubes.
I was 12.
-I was diagnosed with Ee Dee En Oh Ess in the summer of seventh grade.
EDNOS is a catch-all eating disorder characterized by the characteristics you lacked
To be able to gain the coveted name brand DSM-5 diagnosis of anorexia.
-This I considered to be my failure.
To not qualify because of a lack of being underweight was all I needed for motivation.
So I doubled down on my efforts to lose weight and by the age of fourteen
I had finally achieved that which I so...craved.
I was the best. The skinniest. The one people whispered about in the halls and I had all the attention I could ever dream of getting.
And I was happy.
Wasn’t I?

Skip ahead to now and you will know my comeback story.
Seven years of weekly therapy, numerous psych ward stays, and one near-death experience
I can finally say that I am at a stable and healthy weight.
I continue to despise my body, but now I have the tools and mechanisms to be able to fight off the demon I had nicknamed “Ana”.
-And while I still cannot say that I truly love myself the way I am,
Slowly and steadily I continue to improve.
And I hope that one day I can look into that mirror, take in all my flaws and still be able to tell little 6 year old Grace…
“Sweet girl, you will be okay”.

I asked my inner writer,
Is your prose poetic?
Or your poetry prosaic?
And my inner writer asked me,
Are you traditional with modern values?
Or are you modern with traditional values?
Are you an introvert who loves to express?
Or an extravert who loves silences?
Are you an optimist who sees the clouds?
Or a pessimist who sees rainbows?
Are you thoughtful with some light-hearted ways?
Or humourous with some sober ways?
And on and on and on and on
And on and on it went.
I'll never ask my inner writer
About writing
Again.
-Vijayalakshmi Harish
24.09.2012

Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish

Shel Silverstein and Roald Dahl
Live just down the hall
From each other
Somewhere in my mind

'Cause these ***** old men
Are known to have penned
Many favorite kid books of mine

But they also worked blue
And wrote more than a few
Naughty songs, novels and rhymes

They stayed true to their style
They'd go the extra mile
Their ****'s guaranteed to blow minds!

Underneath the Poet Tree


Come and rest awhile with me,


And watch the way the word-web weaves


Between the shady story leaves.


The branches of the Poet Tree


Reach from the mountains to the sea.


So come and dream, or come and climb--


Just don't get hit by falling rhymes.

There once was a boy named Gimme-Some-Roy... He was nothin' like me or you,
'cause laying back and getting high was all he cared to do.

As a kid, he sat in the cellar...sniffing airplane glue. And then he smoked banana peels, when that was the thing to do. He tried aspirin in Coca-Cola, he breathed helium on the sly, and his life became an endless search to find the perfect high.

But grass just made him wanna lay back and eat chocolate-chip pizza all night,
and the great things he wrote when he was ****** looked like **** in the morning light.
Speed made him wanna rap all day, reds laid him too far back, *******-Rose was sweet to his nose, but the price nearly broke his back.

He tried ***, he tried THC, but they never quite did the trick. Poppers nearly blew his heart, mushrooms made him sick. Acid made him see the light, but he couldn't remember it long. Hash was a little too weak, and smack was a lot too strong. Quaaludes made him stumble, ***** just made him cry, Then he heard of a cat named Baba Fats who knew of the perfect high.

Now, Baba Fats was a hermit cat...lived high up in Nepal, High on a craggy mountain top, up a sheer and icy wall. "Well, hell!" says Roy, "I'm a healthy boy, and I'll crawl or climb or fly,
Till I find that guru who'll give me the clue as to what's the perfect high."

So out and off goes Gimme-Some-Roy, to the land that knows no time, Up a trail no man could conquer, to a cliff no man could climb. For fourteen years he climbed that cliff...back down again he'd slide . . .
He'd sit and cry, then climb some more, pursuing the perfect high.

Grinding his teeth, coughing blood, aching and shaking and weak, Starving and sore, bleeding and tore, he reaches the mountain peak. And his eyes blink red like a snow-blind wolf, and he snarls the snarl of a rat,
As there in repose, and wearing no clothes, sits the god-like Baba Fats.

"What's happenin', Fats?" says Roy with joy, "I've come to state my biz . . .
I hear you're hip to the perfect trip... Please tell me what it is. "For you can see," says Roy to he, "I'm about to die, So for my last ride, tell me, how can I achieve the perfect high?"

"Well, dog my cats!" says Baba Fats. "Another burned out soul, Who's lookin' for an alchemist to turn his trip to gold. It isn't in a dealer's stash, or on a druggist's shelf... Son, if you would find the perfect high, find it in yourself."

"Why, you jive mother-******!" says Roy, "I climbed through rain and sleet,
I froze three fingers off my hands, and four toes off my feet! I braved the lair of the polar bear, I've tasted the maggot's kiss. Now, you tell me the high is in myself? What kinda **** is this?

My ears, before they froze off," says Roy, "had heard all kindsa crap; But I didn't climb for fourteen years to hear your sophomore rap. And I didn't climb up here to hear that the high is on the natch, So you tell me where the real stuff is, or I'll **** your guru ***!"

"Okay...okay," says Baba Fats, "You're forcin' it outta me... There is a land beyond the sun that's known as Zabolee. A wretched land of stone and sand, where snakes and buzzards scream, And in this devil's garden blooms the mystic Tzutzu tree.

Now, once every ten years it blooms one flower, as white as the Key West sky,
And he who eats of the Tzutzu flower shall know the perfect high. For the rush comes on like a tidal wave...hits like the blazin' sun. And the high? It lasts forever, and the down don't never come.

But, Zabolee Land is ruled by a giant, who stands twelve cubits high, And with eyes of red in his hundred heads, he awaits the passer-by. And you must slay the red-eyed giant, and swim the river of slime, Where the mucous beasts await to feast on those who journey by. And if you slay the giant and beasts, and swim the slimy sea, There's a blood-drinking witch who sharpens her teeth as she guards the Tzutzu tree."

"Well, to hell with your witches and giants," says Roy, "To hell with the beasts of the sea--
Why, as long as the Tzutzu flower still blooms, hope still blooms for me."
And with tears of joy in his sun-blind eyes, he slips the guru a five, And crawls back down the mountainside, pursuing the perfect high.

"Well, that is that," says Baba Fats, sitting back down on his stone, Facing another thousand years of talking to God, alone. "Yes, Lord, it's always the same...old men or bright-eyed youth... It's always easier to sell 'em some **** than it is to tell them the truth."

Find me a place where the city ends
In a line where the meadow begins
And the flowers grow sweet and wild
And the sunlight falls on every child
And all night the songbirds sing.
To soften the moons bloom on the wind

Cross from the city with ***** smoke stacks
and the pavement wind’s without end.
Past all the cracks where dandelions grow.
To the place where the pace of all is slow.
We shall walk where the wildflower and wildlife go.
In the place where the city ends

Yes we shall walk where the pace of all is slow
To where the sounds of children’s laughter goes
For in their innocence they surely know.
The place where the city ends.

He would come home from work with Shel Silverstein poems and candy cigarettes.
My brother always took the fake cancer sticks and left Shel for me.
I would make origami swans out of MASKS,
and paper hats out of The Giving Tree.
All the windows were always open in the house,
and the breeze would stir up the wind chimes hung both indoors and out.
Mom was always painting in the dining room or on the porch,
and dad would bring a new canvas home for her every week.
At night we would all eat dinner in the living room and watch Jeopardy,
and mom and dad would sit really close to each other and try to answer the questions on the TV.

Sometimes he came home from work with roses for mom because she was pregnant,
and we got our first family photo taken,
and we hung it above our fireplace like rich people did.
One day dad didn’t bring a new canvas for mom so, she painted the couch,
and they argued,
and my brother and I began to build blanket forts in our bedroom,
and we drew signs that said no moms or dads allowed,
Mom started getting too tired to cook dinner, so
dad would make everyone quick meals,
and he would sit on the lazy-boy instead of on the sofa next to mom.

Sometimes he would come home from work with bags.
Not shopping bags, but bags under his eyes from working two shifts.
At home he would fall onto the painted couch and sleep most of the day.
Mom began visiting my grandma by herself,
and while dad was asleep my brother and I would chase geese in the yard,
And sometimes we would catch one and we put it in dads room.
It started getting colder outside so we closed all the windows in the house,
but the outdoor wind chimes kept dancing in their music through the fall.
Mom and dad started yelling at each other more and more,
and mom was getting really big.

Sometimes dad would never leave for work.
He stayed inside all day and played video games on the TV,
and mom was still sour about dad not buying her new canvas boards,
and she painted the TV screen when dad was in the shower.
They yelled for a long time,
and my brother and I stayed a few nights at my grandmas with mom.
Mom went into early labor,
and my brother and I sat in a hospital waiting room for eight hours.
Dad showed up to see my new sister be born,
and things were okay again for a little bit.

Sometimes he would come home with big hugs and a last minute fishing trip,
and mom asked him to stay, but he wouldn’t.
Grandma came over to babysit my brother and I so mom could go to a party,
and we built another blanket fort, only this time it was in the livingroom,
and we rented The Passion of The Christ,
and I dreamt that dad was going to sell me for thirty silver pieces.
Mom came home really late and wobbled in a pair of black stilettos towards her bedroom,
and dad came home two weeks later,
and mom and dad screamed at each other,
and mom flushed her wedding ring down the toilet.

Sometimes he hated coming home,
and the neighbor with eight fingers started flirting with mom,
and  he would pretend that he was gonna cut my fingers like his,
and for some reason mom laughed at that violent gag.
My brother and I sat by the door at night in case dad came home,
and the new baby liked to cry a lot.
And one day I snuck up on mom to scare her, and
she was holding broken glass from the family photo to her face.
I told my brother and he thought that maybe she was just trying to shave,
like dad use to.

Sometimes he stopped coming home,
and mom lost the house and moved us into the car.
The eight fingered man got into a fight with mom,
and he syphoned our gas twice.
One day I saw dad in the Meijer parking lot,
and he was with a blonde woman,
whose **** were literally bigger than her head.
I woke mom up and told her,
and she drove to a different lot.

Sometimes he never called me or my brother,
and mom met someone new,
and the new guy had baggy pants and an obsession with football.
And mom got pregnant again,
and the new blonde hair blue eyed baby looked nothing like his dark skinned father,
and we moved into a house again.
My brother and I stopped mentioning our dad to each other,
and the windows in the new house were nailed shut.
Mom was always tired, falling asleep on the toilet or while cooking dinner.
I noticed that gradually we began living with more and more painted furniture.

Sometimes he would write a letter to us,
and mom said if it were a letter then it’s probably from the jail,
and no one ever told me why he went to jail.
My brother and I never wrote back to him,
and I caught my new step-dad burning the old family photo.
One day dad called the house,
and he said he wanted to see us,
and talking to him felt like talking to a stranger.
Mom and the step-dad began collecting small orange bottles,
and at night they locked themselves in their room.
My brother and I would make beds in the livingroom,
and all my siblings would sleep on the floor together.

Sometimes I think about my childhood,
and I’m okay with how things turned out.
I know to fully appreciate the calm of an open window,
and I often write people letters now.
I don’t have the time to see mom and dad much anymore,
but I often feel sorry for them and their aimlessness.
I visit my siblings on weeks when I can,
and I try hard to love them the best that I can.
I’ve forgiven the things that might seem unfair,
I’ve moved on to a new life,
It’s better, I swear


*
My brother and I found a box of candy cigarettes at the supermarket last week,
and before bed last night I read aloud Shel Silverstein's,  A Boy Named Sue,
and everything was good again.

when i was a teenager i fancied myself an adult
even when i was younger than a teenager
11, 12, 13 years old, barely not a little girl,
i thought i was a grown up
because functionally i was an adult
i came home to empty house and cooked for myself, cleaned up after myself, did the dishes while i was still afraid of all the knives, did the laundry when i was barely tall enough to reach the bottom of the washer

And at the time, i thought this was a good thing
i talked about how mature i was, how together i was
in high school i was all about how well prepared i was for life because i already knew how to cook and clean for myself
i already knew how to care for myself

and then i went away to college
and at first i was fine, i was right, i could look after myself
i got good grades, i cleaned my dorm room, i cooked myself dinner
i was functionally and legally an adult
and then my mom got cancer
i was 400 miles from home and my mom got cancer and i didn't want to be an adult anymore

suddenly i was nine years old crying alone in my bed
except i couldn't cry alone in my bed because i had roommates
so it was one am and i sobbed on the porch being careful not to cry out too loudly because i was afraid of what the neighbors would think

when i started going to therapy one of the first things she said was that i was a parentalized child
that's someone who, as a child, was forced to act as their own or someone else's parent
a psychiatric diagnosis of 'she just grew up too fast'

i grew up too fast and now i'm twenty one years old and trying to remember how to be a child again
but i can't remember something i never was
i feel like i'm trying to hold onto water

there's a part of me that's young and scared and a part of me that's old and fakes being well adjusted
and for a long time they coexisted
not in harmony, just in separate parts of my brain where they couldn't see or speak to each other
but now someone's gone and introduced them and they won't stop fighting
the screaming in my head is loud and never ceases and i'm never sure which one of them is winning

i have to learn how to be a child and be okay with crying and asking for help with things i should know how to do
and i have to be an adult and be responsible and wake up on time
and i don't know how to do all those things at once
because as much as i like that shel silverstein poem, our ages are not pennies in a bandaid box
i can't be seven or twenty one based on when it suits me
i do not know how to reconcile the warring parts of me

my mother lived through cancer
and i haven't spoken to my father in almost two years
but i am still dealing with the shrapnel that's taken the place of the blood in my veins
and if anyone tells you that growing up quickly is a good thing
that it will make you well prepared for living alone
don't listen to them

i listened to them and now i'm twenty one years old and i can't go to the doctor without bringing a teddy bear
and i can't sleep without a nightlight
and sometimes i even drink from sippy cups because i find the familiarity soothing
because the little girl inside of me never learned to be an adult
and the adult that made itself my skin can't remember how to be a child because they never were one
i am two separate halves that cannot figure out how to be whole together

your life is a building with a hundred stories and no elevator
you have to go to each floor before you can reach the top
if you skip too many stairs you might just fall down to the bottom
and i promise
there is no shortcut worth dying for

I find myself sidewalking everything
So Silverstein was lucky to know where it ends
Will I ever be privileged to discover such a thing?
Too many trivial needs distract from its pursuit
But how am I to know?
When it's time, I only cared for my toys
The way the sheeple only care for their handouts
Do tell; if the Pentagon lays off 800,000 people
Will we know they're telling the truth about unemployment
When their words flow between mouthfuls
Of stolen fruit and gold
At the table of the elite
So tell me, who is John Galt?
I sit at a table with a mind that knows how to think for himself
And can't help but think this is the purest form of elitism:
Until at last the time has come
For the imminent end of all serfdom
Brought by the brawn of the brainy
How are we to keep our heads when the others ***** us over
Take our heads clean off to see the contents
Only the strongest can withstand the attempts to skew ideas
Upon who's minds the lying flies
Forced off by intellect
The simple last defender of God and liberty
Big Brother would have us not discuss such things
At times, I feel that we are the last in the world
So, tell me- if this paper is the last in the world, have we written something significant?
I've no doubt the world will see
The mistakes of society
Time then, will bring forth a new renaissance, with us as creators
And they, as the readers of some disconnected thoughts
Written at a time when the end of a page was a good stopping point for poetry, but not for the limit of government infringement on personal freedom.

I will not play at tug o' war .
I'd rather play at hug o' war,
Where everyone huhs
Instead of tugs,
Where everyone giggles
And rolls on the rug,
And everyone cuddles,
And everyone wins.

By Shel Silverstein.

Yes I jumped in those leaves
crunchy, fluffy, autumn leaves
Waded in the decorative fountain
Climbed on the public art

Yes I danced swing in the BART station
Hid in the grocery store among rolls of
toilet paper
Had to *** a ride after the Dicken's faire
Played in the rain
Hugged my mother
Made my dad take me to see Tangled in 3D

Yes I measured the baking soda for those
dinosaur chocolate chip cookies
Loved Steve Irwin will all my childhood admiration
Was afraid of the Deep End
Memorized Shel Silverstein

Remember my sister reading me Harry Potter
Gripping my best friend on Tower of Terror, Indiana Jones, Space Mountain
Sang Christmas Carols in October
And I'm not even sorry

I was a pirate paleontologist pop-star
pokemon master steampunk rocker renaissance girl who
time-traveled, hunting T-rex
adventuring with Christopher Robin, Calvin and Hobbes

Made two corsages for my junior prom, fed ducks,
ate at Mels, posed in the dollar store, watched
the Avengers in our glittering dresses for the second

Laughed so hard I cried about the stupidest things
I doubted, got lost in Costco, found my faith
Had my prayers answered
For the bestest, most faithful friends
I have the "simple human relief of knowing you’ve done wrong, and living through it"

And don't take this the wrong way
It's not like I'm going to jump off a bridge
Well, maybe with a bungee cord?

But if I died right now
****! Gone.
I wouldn't say I envied anybody
Not really

We've had a pretty **** great time
haven't we?

Oh sure I'd protest
Places to go, people to see, things to eat, but...

As long as You forgive me
my faults

Whose to say,
There is anything else I HAVE to do
Before I have lived a GREAT life

I have nothing to prove
besides that I am grateful
for this breath of life
which may pass at any moment

Once you’ve been in the ocean
A lake is far too small
If a lake ever had ledges
Off them you would surely fall
You’ve swam in much too big of a place
To move to another without so much space
A pond will never be your true home
Not for you not once you’re full grown
Your arms will be too big your legs too giant
Your body in a puddle will never be complaint
So as you develop from a child to something bigger
Remember that you’re an ocean not a river
Your brain is too big so your body had to fit it
And living in a river would would surely **** your big sprit
Stay in the place that fits like a size too big shoe
Where there’s plenty of space for you to grow up to be you

when i was little,
i used to read those books,
you know,
by shel silverstein?
where the sidewalk ends,
and
a light in the attic?
there was a poem in one,
and it went like this:
"Last night, while I lay thinking here,
some Whatifs crawled inside my ear
and pranced and partied all night long
and sang their same old Whatif song:
Whatif I'm dumb in school?
Whatif they've closed the swimming pool?
Whatif I get beat up?
Whatif there's poison in my cup?
Whatif I start to cry?
Whatif I get sick and die?
Whatif I flunk that test?
Whatif green hair grows on my chest?
Whatif nobody likes me?
Whatif a bolt of lightning strikes me?
Whatif I don't grow taller?
Whatif my head starts getting smaller?
Whatif the fish won't bite?
Whatif the wind tears up my kite?
Whatif they start a war?
Whatif my parents get divorced?
Whatif the bus is late?
Whatif my teeth don't grow in straight?
Whatif I tear my pants?
Whatif I never learn to dance?
Everything seems well, and then
the nighttime Whatifs strike again!"
and that poem sticks in my head,
a lot.
because,
really,
"whatif's" control my every thought.
my "whatif's" keep me,
all in check,
when they breathe their "whatif's",
on my neck.
they keep me waiting,
watching,
and wary,
"whatif" life, wasn't so scary?
"whatif" i could live,
and not be so afraid,
"whatif" i was sure,
of the choices i've made?
i guess i'll find out soon,
but "whatif" i don't.
to be honest i'm scared,
that maybe i won't.

Trying to write poetry again after months and months
is
like
rereading all my Shel Silverstein poem books
&
attempting to create a time machine to go back
to
my
*good old days

I just wanted to let you know, that.
Well, I'm working on forgiving myself.
It's getting easier. I'm getting healthier.
I laugh more. I look around more.
I see the world for its beauty, not its pain.
I love life. I love how the sun rises and the earth spins.
I love my books and my dad and my puppy in puppy heaven.
I love my soul, and Tyler's soul and my grandparents. And many more.
And I don't think I love you and that's okay. I was wrong. You were right about me being wrong.
Love isn't the only thing that matters.
I used to believe it was.

I was wrong. And that's okay.
Life is a learning lesson and I'm only 16 years and 340 days old.
I've got a lot of learning to do.

I won't cut again. I'm sorry I did. But I like this new scar.
It feels cool and looks cool and I like what it reminds me of.
Because most memories of you are pleasant even though they're terrifying and I hate them. To clarify: you didn't make me cut.
You were just added weight to my trigger.
Especially. The uh. Hm. That one thing that you only told two people or so you told me.

I miss Belle. She was my best friend.
I love her to death. Always will.

And I miss the Faith that was once my best friend but she doesn't exist anymore.
She had ***. Almost with three different men, I was almost one of them. But she had *** with just one. I hope.

I drink more water nowadays. It helps clean my system. I write less poetry. And that's okay.

I'm reading Fight Club. I can relate a lot to it. ****-
                                                                                       rule No. 1.
I'm doing more school work. I'm done with work next week.
I miss taking care of dogs and chickens. Turns out I liked it.

I take more Marshall time now. That's a good thing.
I deserve it.
But I'm also terrible busy.

In Jazz Band, we're playing a kinda ****** piece instead of one that we've been working so ******* and I feel kind of betrayed.
I play trombone. Jazz and Wind Ensemble.

I've been ******* more lately and I don't quite know why.
It's not loneliness. I think it's just honest *** drive.

This chick at work is really cool and attractive and I kind of feel bad for leaving because we connect really well.
I want to see if I can get her number.
She has nice eyes and is relaxed with me. I love it.
And her voice is lovely. She's relatively short, that's honestly the only iffy.
And I don't know how old she is.

I'm glad you turned my note into the office.
Don't know why I wrote my whole name on it AND put my emblem in the corner. It's supposed to be a supplement for my name...

I'm sorry that you had to be the one to help me. It should have been somebody who didn't hate me. Kind of upside down, don'tcha think?

I've only had one dream about you since we split. The night after it happened.
I dreamt about Belle the night after that :)

Music doesn't feel as good as it used to. My taste has changed with this schism.
Silverstein still feels good but not as much as it used to. Atreyu is closer to home, but I wore that out. Chiodos is on the plate right now but I feel like that will waste soon. I'm feeling like I should try pop.

Alie, the server manager at work, also my neighbor, is my mother figure. My grandmas are getting old. My aunts have disappeared. My papa is getting old and it saddens me. I love him to death. He was my childhood. I will be the hardest crier at his funeral. I'm tearing up already.
But not yet. He still cooks. He still laughs. And loves.


You will never read this. And that's okay.
I needed this. Not you. Me.

Cause I'm ******* awesome and no other should be able to drag me down.
Because they will ALWAYS try.

(I still want *** though. Emily is one of the things my brain thinks about, but when I'm fantasizing alone in the dark or shower or something, I always think of Belle. Every time. I can't shake her and I don't want to. She is the dream.)
(But so is MY future. I just hope she's part of it, but if not entirely, that's okay. I want to be a pharmacist. Or something like that. Preferably pharmacist. I've looked up a lot on how to make it happen.)
(7-11 Coffee is my favorite. But Dee's is really good too.)

Te Amo.
~M

She had blue skin,
And so did he.
He kept it hid
And so did she.
They searched for blue
Their whole life through,
Then passed right by
And never knew.

-Shel Silverstein.

There once was a boy named Gimmesome Roy. He was nothing like me or you.
’Cause laying back and getting high was all he cared to do.
As a kid, he sat in the cellar, sniffing airplane glue.
And then he smoked bananas –– which was then the thing to do.
He tried aspirin in Coca–Cola, breathed helium on the sly,
And his life was just one endless search to find that perfect high.
But grass just made him want to lay back and eat chocolate–chip pizza all night,
And the great things he wrote while he was ****** looked like **** in the morning light.
And speed just made him rap all day, reds just laid him back,
And ******* Rose was sweet to his nose, but the price nearly broke his back.
He tried *** and THC, but they didn’t quite do the trick,
And poppers nearly blew his heart and mushrooms made him sick.
Acid made him see the light, but he couldn’t remember it long.
And hashish was just a little too weak, and smack was a lot too strong,
And Quaaludes made him stumble, and ***** just made him cry,
Till he heard of a cat named Baba Fats who knew of the perfect high.

Now, Baba Fats was a hermit cat who lived up in Nepal,
High on a craggy mountaintop, up a sheer and icy wall.
"But hell," says Roy, "I’m a healthy boy, and I’ll crawl or climb or fly,
But I’ll find that guru who’ll give me the clue as to what’s the perfect high."
So out and off goes Gimmesome Roy to the land that knows no time,
Up a trail no man could conquer to a cliff no man could climb.
For fourteen years he tries that cliff, then back down again he slides
Then sits –– and cries –– and climbs again, pursuing the perfect high.
He’s grinding his teeth, he’s coughing blood, he’s aching and shaking and weak,
As starving and sore and bleeding and tore, he reaches the mountain peak.
And his eyes blink red like a snow–blind wolf, and he snarls the snarl of a rat,
As there in perfect repose and wearing no clothes –– sits the godlike Baba Fats.

"What’s happening, Fats?" says Roy with joy, "I’ve come to state my biz.
I hear you’re hip to the perfect trip. Please tell me what it is.
For you can see," says Roy to he, "that I’m about to die,
So for my last ride, Fats, how can I achieve the perfect high?"
"Well, dog my cats!" says Baba Fats. "here’s one more burnt–out soul,
Who’s looking for some alchemist to turn his trip to gold.
But you won’t find it in no dealer’s stash, or on no druggist’s shelf.
Son, if you would seek the perfect high –– find it in yourself."

"Why, you jive *******!" screamed Gimmesome Roy, "I’ve climbed through rain and sleet,
I’ve lost three fingers off my hands and four toes off my feet!
I’ve braved the lair of the polar bear and tasted the maggot’s kiss.
Now, you tell me the high is in myself. What kind of **** is this?
My ears ’fore they froze off," says Roy, "had heard all kind of crap,
But I didn’t climb for fourteen years to listen to that sophomore rap.
And I didn’t crawl up here to hear that the high is on the natch,
So you tell me where the real stuff is or I’ll **** your guru ***!"

"Ok, OK," says Baba Fats, "you’re forcing it out of me.
There is a land beyond the sun that’s known as Zaboli.
A wretched land of stone and sand where snakes and buzzards scream,
And in this devil’s garden blooms the mystic Tzu–Tzu tree.
And every ten years it blooms one flower as white as the Key West sky,
And he who eats of the Tzu–Tzu flower will know the perfect high.
For the rush comes on like a tidal wave and it hits like the blazing sun.
And the high, it lasts a lifetime and the down don’t ever come.
But the Zaboli land is ruled by a giant who stands twelve cubits high.
With eyes of red in his hundred heads, he waits for the passers–by.
And you must slay the red–eyed giant, and swim the River of Slime,
Where the mucous beasts, they wait to feast on those who journey by.
And if you survive the giant and the beasts and swim that slimy sea,
There’s a blood–drinking witch who sharpens her teeth as she guards that Tzu–Tzu tree."
"To hell with your witches and giants," laughs Roy. "To hell with the beasts of the sea.
As long as the Tzu–Tzu flower blooms, some hope still blooms for me."
And with tears of joy in his snow–blind eye, Roy hands the guru a five,
Then back down the icy mountain he crawls, pursuing that perfect high.

"Well, that is that," says Baba Fats, sitting back down on his stone,
Facing another thousand years of talking to God alone.
"It seems, Lord", says Fats, "it’s always the same, old men or bright–eyed youth,
It’s always easier to sell them some **** than it is to give them the truth."

When I was nine-ish I planned to give my mother a book of poems for her birthday.
Mother's Day?
Christmas?
Something.
I would write fifty-three poems for her
I was in a Jack Prelutsky phase.
My sister preferred Shel Silverstein.
I don't remember any of them
Or even if I made it
But I remember planning.
At night I wrote on the slats of my sister's bunk bed
She always got top bunk.
I wrote my plan
And ideas for these poems
And styles and layouts and covers.

I don't know if I went through with it
But if I did
I hope that she kept it
So I can remember who I was.

I'm no Dickinson or Poe
But I still let my ideas flow
No great writer of inspiration
I'm no Poe or Dickinson

I try to follow in their path
But I'm no Shakespeare or Plath
I will write for all my years
Though I'm no Plath or Shakespeare

On you I hope my words are not lost
I'm no Blake nor Frost
I hope you won't think I'm a fake
Because I'm not a Frost or a Blake

I'm no Kipling or Silverstein
But I think my words are keen
So I'll keep on writing
Even though I'm no Silverstein or Kipling

Sometimes I wonder if we are really all listening
Or just too distracted with the African diamonds glistening
Sold to you by Zales, yet every kiss begins with Kay.  
Fat and lazy fast food crazy
Chasing highs blinded thinking they really have it their way

The devices in our possession finally allow us to progress as one people.  We can connect with others oceans away and together rid the world of evil.  The destructive misuse of power is felt when we see the segregation.  Responsibility has been shed for more tax cuts, when some live unsure they will make it.  Fabricated stories facilitate war - on drugs, ideas, and our collective growth.  
So I must ask
When these tragedies happen, who actually benefits the most?  Making sure to add "terrorist acts" under a potential insurance claim just days before buildings imploded to dust rather than be eaten by flames, or severed with a plane.  The man who did this was named Larry Silverstein.  Interviews after he seemed cold, devoid of soul, and mean.  Arms dealers, oil companies, and bank executives, carry out these plots that are now repetitive.  Play with the heartstrings of one's own people, that think they can veil everything but I know we're not feeble, and in all these other places we're beginning to feel.
Cheney's Halliburton rebuilds nations after war decimates the ground.  Yes, let's let our pockets pay any amount, grind ourselves 45 hours a week so with our taxes they can play around.  Still staying stiff in the position promising your wishes will come true.  But again the scapegoat ***** your hope of political action bringing something new.  
While blowing ourselves away the frame becomes unglued.  This cancer is man made and he wants to redesign you. Analyzes with the force of a brute. Built tall walls with his flaws that only allows the seven deadly sins in.  Will he in his mind ever decide to see the sun again?  Can he really say that to himself he is a friend?  Meanwhile a governor of Flint, Michigan is okaying lead be let in to the water system, 9,000 now are poisoned.  We're talking families complete with children.  Speaking on topics like this, I do not have fun.  But the divine needs to shine wherever necessary.  If we don't speak now we could head into a reality that's only more scary.  No more families buried until they carry out their long lives.  I will honor Mother Nature and the life she provides.  As the Amazon depletes, the air needs more trees.  Less chemicals drifting into our systems as we eat and breathe.  Fearlessly pure we become free.  With eyes on the skies we leave our feet, articulated honest advancement.  Through conscious choice and proper management.  
No one owns you or where the lands currently sit, but you'll probably hear different from the government.  

We are all one, and life will go on.
Sun shines on our land every day at dawn
Balances created keep our hearts in motion
Close your eyes and see the focal point of your devotion.  Music gave me a way to see inside there lies the potion - to take my emotion and share the reflections to other oceans

Humans like to think
Other humans are
Replaceable.
Humans like to think
That they themselves
Are not.

But let me let you in on a secret:
Everyone is either a lesson
Or a blessing.

No lesson can be replaced,
And neither can any blessing.

Because in some way,
They were necessary to make you who you are.

I was told recently
About a book.
"The Missing Piece" by Shel Silverstein.

The lesson I was given from this book,
Is that you can have all kinds of pieces!
Pieces that don't fit, pieces that would never fit,
And pieces that look like they should fit but don't at all.

So if you ever feel replaceable,
Remember you are someone's perfect missing piece.
You just have to sort out through all the not-so perfect pieces first.

And before I cut this off,
I should explain,
Your perfect piece is not perfect because it is perfect in the textbook definition of the word.
Your piece is perfect
Because you will be so completely perfect to someone (All your damage, broken parts, and scars too) that you will not need to be perfect, no.

You will just have to be you,
And that in itself
Is irreplaceable.

9.Show It At The Beach
Oh they won't let us show it at the beach no they won't let us show it at the beach
They think we're gonna grab it if it gets within our reach read more »

Sheldon Allan Silverstein
10.the sea
when you're at the beach you might see
surfers riding out to sea

when you're at the beach you might see read more »

Matthew Smi
11.Santa Monica Mountains..Kanan Dume
Santa Monica Mountains....Kanan Dume
There...in the distance...and one day soon
.......I'll be on the beach....at Malibu read more »

James B. Earley
12.At the Beach
At The Beach

You roll down the window
And even before you see it read more »

Khalid Icanttellyou

Ticonderoga, bite-marks to the lead
Bare-bone, grammar school and phonics
Sentence structures, finger paint
Yarn through cardboard looms
Shel Silverstein and crab-apples
One day I will change the world.

I've got no friends where the sidewalk ends.

Why wear a crown and be asked
If you are a king or queen?
You can just be royal

Any place can be called home
It doesn’t have to be a house
It can be a person
A flower
Your school
A song
A poem
Or anything else
It doesn’t have to be a set in stone house
Or building
So,
For that,
I Am A Wooden Chair
I can be carried anywhere and still feel
As though I am at home

Why do people have to be judged by how they look?
It doesn’t matter if I have acne
If I have tattooed freckles
Or crooked teeth
It’s funny that the things that people call flaws,
I think are cute
Everything that is happening right now,
Doesn’t matter
In a hundred years,
Acne,
Tattooed freckles,
Or crooked teeth
Could be considered
Cute
So,
For that,
I Am A Lover Boy Mouth
I can look like anything I want
And still be cute

Find the David in the marble
Back when Michelangelo
Was carving David,
(WARNING! THIS IS ALL
FAKE, AND JUST A FIGMENT OF MY
IMAGINATION ACTING UP
AGAIN)
He sat at his little stool staring at marble
He said,
“My boi!!!
Yessssssss!”
And that’s how David was made…
Okay,
Okay,
I’m kidding,
But there’s one thing that I do know
When Michelangelo was creating David,
He actually had a block of marble
And saw the David in the marble
Before he even started carving
You can take that many different ways
With your life
With school
You can take that with whatever you want
So,
For that,
I Am A David In A Mask
The reason that there is a mask on David
Is because,
There is a poem by
Shel Silverstein
Called
“Masks”
It’s about two people who are blue
And
Are trying to find people like themselves
They pass right by each other and don’t even know
That they were both blue
Because they didn’t pay attention
And didn’t show who they were to the world
So
For that,
I Am A David Wearing A Mask

It’s crazy how life can be thrown at you
And
You get the wind knocked out of you
But your lungs burst for the taste of air
So you get up and keep walking like nothing ever happened
So,
For that,
I Am A Wrestling Mask

You look at someone with a crown on their head
And ask
“Are you a king or queen?”
But why can’t we just be?
Why can’t we just be ourselves?
Why can’t we just be royal?
Why does there have to be a gender involved?
So,
For reasons that I do not want to explain
For reasons that I do not want to get scolded for
I Am A Cactus
Wearing A Crown

There is no way to say that anything is perfect
There is no way to say that anything is not perfect

There is no way to say that you can’t be a Wooden Chair
A Lover Boy Mouth
A David In A Mask
A Wrestling Mask
Or even A Cactus Wearing A Crown
Just be yourself and you can always be any of these things…..

So,
With that saying…
I Am A Cactus

If I was a work of art I'd be a poem
but just a blank white sheet of generic notebook paper
and you would be a symphony
which sounds pretty beautiful
but I never really liked Bach and
I never really liked Beethoven and
I never really liked Mozart and
I never really liked
myself

but
ohmygoddidIlikeyou
like Da Vinci liked Mona and
Dali liked

l
o
  n
   g

d r i p    i n g
          p
brush strokes depicting surrealist scenes and
Picasso liked Cubism and
Van Gogh liked his own ******* sadness and a tub of sunflower-yellow paint and that girl
he sent his neatly packaged and not-so-neatly severed off ear to

though
I suppose
artists are supposed to hate their art
with a burning self-depreciation sort of self-determination or
at least that's what I got from
Plant and Lydon and Cobain and
every other shooting star rock-and-roll phenomenon with their name engraved on a plaque somewhere
and a drug problem that procured a thousand cigarettes now just as burnt out as they are

but here's the thing
you aren't my art
you
are a breathing
walking
talking
self-portrait that sputters to life every morning
with an accent on each note

like I said
if we were art
you would be a symphony
but the orchestra
is crescondo-ing to no end now and
quite frankly I am tired of all these high-pitched violin marcatos and
I am losing myself in the repeats and
I am just wondering when the fine will come

like I said
if we were art
I would be a poem
that was just an empty piece of drab old paper
much too conventional and clean and
empty
to be appreciated
but
I guess a beginning in the form of an empty sheet of paper is all
Poe and Frost and Plath and
Auden and Silverstein and Dickinson and
Shakespeare and Bukowski and Cummings
had in common
anyway.

Silverstein, Linkin Park, and Drop Dead Gorgeous
Bands that turn my blood to sludge
It moves like molasses through my veins
Slow and painful
My heart bursts from the build up
Lyrics that speak in a spell
Curse my soul and pierce my eyes with tears
Sickening my rotting guts
Clever perfect words
I wish I could say these words
When I'm stuck in situations similar
These songs tell the story of my life so clearly
Explanations from random places
To tell the world I must
But I remain expressionless
No need to cause unwanted attraction
Wishes of disappearing over take my dreams
Little specs of repair filter through my thoughts
And yet I still have no proper plans
I get crazy ideas and pray that they work in my favor
Hope to God that something comes of it

Doom and gloom
You would assume.
Jaded to a fault.
Hate my parents
Hate my life
Blah blah blah
But on a sarcastic note,
There are things I feel
I should inform,
This society of faceless prose,
I'm actually quite unoriginal
And awkward as far as I go.
I fall a lot
I laugh even more
I'm obsessed with a lot of musical scores.
I can draw and play stringed wood
I'd love to dance...
If I only could.
I love the elderly
And the habits they keep.
I love little kids
And the way that they creep.
I'm prone to an unexpected collapse
Of thoughts and rationality.
The color red
Tickles my fancy.
Mac and cheese is a classic dish of mine.
Cheesecake makes my sweet tooth rot.
And I think three toed sloths are out right FINE!
No, they really are! Check them out.
They're my spirit animal without a doubt.
I like to look up cats on YouTube.
And I'm obsessed with SEGA genesis too.
I enjoy a good calorie burn
If it means getting off the couch for the tv channel to turn.
I'm not fat but I'm not thin
I'm too lazy to notice if that smell is coming from me or the trash can.
I don't like mirrors or olives that much.
Brussel sprouts are also included in that bunch.
I converse with myself until I get caught
By people thinking I'm talking to them
When I'm not.
Disney movies, **** yes please!
Favorites are hunchback of Notre dame and Hercules.
Sandman comics and Calvin and Hobbes
Are written in my nightly dreams.
Don't like coffee and I don't like tea
But red bull makes my eyes twitching.
Vanilla is my favorite smell.
I don't like chocolate all that well.
I talk too much about nothing at all
And when it comes to love,
I love to fall.
5'2"...yes I'm shorter than you
I'm well aware of it when reaching for things too.
I dye my hair and cut it myself.
It took a lot of bald months
To have it this fancy and lucious.
I get a lot of looks while driving the scene
When a baby doll like me is blaring slipknot, Metallica, pantera, or coheed.
I'm nearly 25 but look 17
And I still have a soft spot for shel Silverstein.
Neil gaiman is my main man to read
And his wife, Amanda Palmer, has created my favorite music scene.
I used to wear a lot of black
Until I graduated high school and said
"The hell with that."
Colors aren't as bad as all of that.
I like my knives and my stuffed animals just the same
Strangers things I'm crazy
Crazy people think I'm sane.
I'm a hippy as far a fashion dreams
Bell bottom pants and worn out band tees.
I have more guy friends than girls
And I think it's getting me in just as much trouble.
I thought I was gay once
But japan made me sure
When approaching a drunken *******
I couldn't even touch the guy or the girl.
So I declined, my eyebrow confused and creased
Turned that ******* into a twosome
And left them in peace.
I design tattoos and have a few of my own
Based on comic books as my arms would show.
I'm a bit of a nerd but there are worse things to be
Now you know I'm kind of perky
Do you still like me?