You write about him like
You know him so well.
Like you've seen the way his
Hands cupped my ******* and
How he said he came when he
Did those things to me.
If you want that,
That's fine.
It's alright.
I'm just warning you,
It's not as fun as it seems it
Should be.

My worst fears are
Coming true.
They don't believe me,
They believe you.

Hot off the press as in I finished this piece about thirty minutes ago, any advice? I love and appreciate all of you beautiful people. -Cyril*

I yelped when the third blister popped and David shouted to me from a few branches above, “if the blood flows you have to make your mark here, Jacob.” Frustrated, I pull out my dulled Wal-Mart knife and notch Old Pine where my blood broke this time. I look around for my notch from last week and spy it a few feet below my right foot.
“You’re getting higher each week! I know you’ll make it to the top next time. I can just feel it, man,” David said. The hope in his voice always kills me.
I’m higher than before but still not high enough. I look up Old Pine and see the circle of deep notches where David stands, dyed red with generations of my family’s blood. I wrap my left arm around the base of Old Pine, skinnier at this height, and I close my eyes. The taste of iron and winter fills my mouth as I gingerly take the corner of the torn callus between my two front teeth and rip the rest of the dead skin clean off. I let the blood pool up until my palm is full and I smear the puddle into my moist notch in the tree. My ***** red blood mixes with the pine’s regal, green blood. I pull my hand away and see the two bloods combine. The smell of blood always makes me dizzy up this high, but I can’t show weakness in front of David. Not at Old Pine.
“I’ll see you at the bottom. I’m done for the day.” I say and before he can reply I leave. I begin the climb back to the ground, dodging empty crow nests and old scared over gashes in Old Pine’s skin, pushed along by cold fists of wind. The blood sneaks through the hole in my palm each time I push it into the spiteful bark along my descent and I try to ignore it.
I dangle from my one good hand on the bottom branch and fall to the dying grass below. My hungry toes feed on solid ground again. I sigh, grabbing a handful of the kudzu that grows on Old Pine’s base to put in my mouth, and I plop to the ground. The breeze here licks my sweaty neck in an apology for its merciless stepbrother who, sixty feet above, whipped and spit across my face. I hear a light thump and feel a breeze behind me and as I turn I see David gracefully landing on two feet.
“You were almost there this time. Just a few more climbs and I’m sure you’ll breech the top.” David’s determination is the only reason I come back with him to this god-forsaken tree. I do it for him, not myself.
I spit the chewed up Kudzu into my palm and mash it into the red holes to help them clot faster. Father taught me about Kudzu’s medicinal uses when we used to hunt together before the fall.
I look up into Old Pine’s green canopy above my head and feel the silence between the three of us. Old Pine is our father now and David thinks it’s his fault. Old Pine is the tallest tree on our farm and the only one infused with generations of our family’s blood. From the very top you can see all of our family land. It’s a view every man in the family has to see when he comes of age. Dad took David up when he was only fourteen. It was on their climb down that he fell. I was nine.
“It’s the view, Jacob. The view is like nothing else you’ll ever experience. Holding onto the rusty-red notch circle and looking out on our land, it’s almost spiritual, man.” I don’t look at him, but I know David is crying.
We looked up to the canvas of green and brown and David asks if I can hear Dad’s whispers, but I all I hear is the creak of old branches.

He said he loved me yesterday.
Today he told me that
He'd never hurt me that
He'd stay by my side no matter
What.
That he'd help me fight off my demons because
he understands and he
cares about me.

But he doesnt understand why
I cringe away in fear when he puts his
Arm around me or
Tries to kiss my cheek.
He doesnt understand that I
Think about what my stepbrother did to me
Constantly
And that I cry in the middle of the night because
Of the nightmares
That were once real.

So,
Truth be told,
Sweetheart,
I turned you down not only because I'm
Not ready for a relationship, but
Also because You
remind me of the
Horrid things I
See at
Night.

If I was gay..
would it really that bad?
I mean,
I'd adopt a few kids, maybe even save their lives.
I'd show the world that I'm not evil, actually, I'm pretty nice..
I volunteer sometimes too.
But, that's not the point,
is it?

Kids are so afraid to be themselves and
you all wonder why.
Want to know?
Because of all the constructive critisism
we get from the second we walk out of
our rooms.
No wonder my stepbrother doesn't want to
leave his room or
I don't want to leave school;
They're safe havens from
******* like you.

My biggest questions are:
What makes him so special?
Why is he so much more
Important,
Than me?
Would seeing his smile,
Be more satisfying than
Mine?

I don't even
Have a sliver of hope,
A chance,
A shot,
To be on the "list"

I'd say it's okay.
I'm okay with it,
I guess.
But I don't know,
I'm still having trouble believing that
You'd pick my abusive
Stepbrother
Over me.

Isn't it nice to rhyme
When words strike as divine
Made to fit the part
Unlike free verse aristofarts
Who would **** your mother
Like beatnik Stepbrother
And sleep through their clocks
For nocturnal jabberwocks

If ever was a Good man.
Benny swung with the times, man.
But Jazz rolled from the hits
Of white British misfits.
When South Bronx fell through crack
The sky and hood went black
Poets sold missing car parts
For Busta Rhymes to bust a start.

Poetry had to lose an art.
Rhyming tossed like the ****
Who ****** Lord Tennyson's ****
Which tugged at Victoria's smock.
It's easy to criticize
An age demystified
But now personifies
Poetry commercialized

And the old aging misfit
Tries to gather the spit
With a mouth so dry.
But not a poet in the sky
Will sanction the crime
To help his verse opine
Against the words-of-a-kind
That English bespoke to rhyme.

Is it okay that I'm
Laughing
But yet still want to go cry
Like I did earlier in homeroom?
Is it okay that I
Want to hold onto him and
Make his shirt a
Deeper red
With my tears?
Is it okay that I snuck those glances
Hoping that maybe you'd do
The same?

Nobody acts the same with me and
I hate it so much.
Why don't you just pretend I'm
Okay instead of making me feel more
Miserable about myself.
Being mad at me doesn't make me feel any better.
It makes me feel even more useless than
I did with the things that happened with my
Stepbrother.

God, I don't even know where this poem is going any more...

grass, gas, or *** nobody rides for free
cops and robbers and the indian hides for me
my *** ate grass got gas and then shies on me
my horse got sores got shot, and dies on me

all us poor kids didn't mind to be a tribe
eenie meanie mighty moe never helped us hide
tony two tooth's daddy likes to run around
his mom is gonna play too and "hunt him down"

one two buckle in my shoe, toys in the attic
hopscotch buckshot semi-automatic
piggy goes to market this piggy stays home
then, this old man comes rollin home all alone

sorry coach but this year i can't go out
daddy blew out his knee and my shoe had a blow out
richie rich called his stepbrother a snitch
sweet summer hits with a hickory switch

jump back charlie jack you know how we feel
bacon comes from a hog boy not from a meal
hoppa fence it's 50 cents for stolen fruit
poppa top drop no deposit no returns pollute

Part I – 10039 330th Street West

I used to live in a haunted house.
Everything about the building felt wrong:
Creaking staircase,
Crumbling basement walls,
Dark side door,
Thin white curtain in the bathroom, which housed a clawfoot tub.

When I lived in the haunted house
I was a little girl, and I didn’t move until I started high school.
I hated my room,
I hated the dining room,
I hated the basement.
I never used the bathroom, which housed a clawfoot tub.

Bad things happened in the haunted house.
It didn’t matter what the time of day was.
Growling at night from the dining room,
Singing in the morning from the basement,
Tapping on the porch window at midday in the playroom.
Nobody checked if there was activity in the bathroom, which housed a clawfoot tub.

I know that the house was haunted
Because someone was always with me when these things happened.
My stepbrother who also heard the growling,
My stepsister who also heard the singing,
And all of us who heard the tapping.
I know that these happened
Because the house was haunted.


Part II – 13947 Gates Avenue

I used to live in a haunted house.
Everything about the building felt wrong:
My bad report cards in the recycling,
The constant panic in my stomach,
Piles of tissues on my bedroom floor,
My bedroom itself, where I constantly hid away.

When I lived in the haunted house
I was a teenager, and I didn’t move until after starting college.
I hated the living room,
I hated the kitchen,
I hated the hallway.
Most of all I hated my bedroom, where I constantly hid away.

Bad things happened in the haunted house.
It didn’t matter what the time of day was.
Whistling by the window at night from the wraparound porch,
Screaming outside during the day from the yard,
Voices whispering my name constantly from anywhere.
I was only safe in my bedroom, where I constantly hid away.

I can’t know that the house was haunted
Because nobody was with me when these things happened.
I was alone with the whistling,
I was alone with the screaming,
I was alone with the whispering.
I can’t know these happened
Because it’s my head that’s haunted.

Fairy Tales end with happy endings,
Not bad memories and a drug problem.
I see the world as a sad fairy tale
With teens wishing upon a star,
Wanting a happy ending.
I wanna DIE!
They scream as they drag
a blade across their perfect skin
With an abusive father
and alcoholic mother.
I want you to LOVE me.
She cries because he left
Her for a better version
Of barbie, with bleach blonde
Hair and sunkissed skin.
I want this all to end
He slurs while finishing
The empty bottle of jack
He kept hidden under his bed
Away from his toxic grandparents
And runaway sister.
I have no place on earth
He laughs while placing a colorful
Sticker on his tongue
Starving because his house is broke
And his mother is addicted to ****.
I know stories
That are not mine to tell,
Stories that are told without words
But actions that speak
For themselves.
There’s a girl overfilled with
Pills and drama.
She reminds me of a bubble
Light, and fun to play with
But get to rough and she’ll explode.
There’s a boy with a mind of a girl,
Filled with unhappy thoughts
And bad memories sent away
For eight months because of
The rope tied to the ceiling.
There’s an eighteen year old who
Writes music to escape
The feeling of being messed over
By a girl with unhealthy habits
And a way with tricks.  
I know a boy who chose
A better life in the marines,
then a jealous stepbrother,
And suicidal father.
Today, i spoke of these stories
I was told to show you how life
Is not always given a happy ending
For those who deserve it.

But you, have the decision to change it all now.  
~a.u.

Perhaps it's this idea
This notion
Of a completely unrealistic love story
Which draws me to books so much.
No I'm not gonna meet a boy in a gang,
or fall in love with my stepbrother,
Nor will he have some sort of disorder
Which weirdly makes him more vulnerable and attractive.
This stuff just won't happen,
And maybe that is what makes it so addictive.
Constantly chasing after this big fantasy
Of one day
Acquiring a love so epic
That it transcends time and space
Just to suit you.
That's something worth wasting my afternoons for.

On the 1st of February, I learned that
My stepbrother committed suicide during the previous night.
It is currently the 3rd of February, and
I'm still in shock. He was just 22.

I wish I could have helped you when you were alive,
But even pills and therapy weren't enough.
We knew you were struggling, but we didn't
Realise how bad it was until it was too late.

I can't process what happened without writing it down.
I feel like I'm in a dream.
I think I'll feel this way for a long time.
But that's okay. We all have different ways of coping.

Time still unwaveringly, furiously, steadily treks on.
It makes sense. Your death means nothing to the businessman on a different continent
But still it feels
wrong.

One day we'll come to terms with your death.
One day life will feel normal again.
We will deal with it accordingly.
But it will take some time.

We love you, Aaron. We'll think of you every time we close our eyes.

I once had a step-brother.
Everyone knew he was bad.
But when I revealed what he did that night,
everyone was stunned.
He tore my life into pieces,
shattered my mind and soul.
He almost stole my dignity.
He almost took it all.
That night, he did more than hurt me.
He made it impossible to live.
But then I started fighting.
And i can’t forgive.
He broke something inside of me.
He almost drove me to **** myself.
He almost killed me himself.
So now, I’m an only child.
With him left fighting the law.
Because if you try to hurt me,
I will fight with tooth and claw.