One of the things that I do for fun (besides posting on NationStates) is to write poems. I've been writing poems since I was a young child, and for a while, I've been thinking of sharing what I write here. Hereafter, this thread was born.
My poems tend to be quite long, so I'm putting them in spoilers. So without further ado, let us begin.
In case this was not clear, I'm open to comments, suggestions, whatever. Post away!
WARNING: some of the subject material in certain poems may be depressing. They will be marked accordingly.
Read them at your own risk!
First off, a poem I wrote for a school assignment. Fall 2008.
Candy Bar Writings: Around the Corner
Around the corner,
There was a man, with his face illuminated by a flashlight,
Looking over the steering wheel as he drove on the wet asphalt
Covered in white, pure, newly fallen snow.
As I walked toward him, at midnight, heading home from work, I stop and stare.
Across the road from where I stood
There was a homeless, little old lady, standing there in a dark alley,
With a grocery bag, filled with cans, bottles, trash,
And despite the pain that I could see on her face, she kept staring at me,
And I think that she wondered what I was doing there, in her territory.
When I looked at the man inside the car
I see darkness shrouded him within, as the night wore on,
And the little old lady, in her alleyway
Just trying to stay alive with trash in her bag,
I thought that maybe, something was going to happen.
And something did happen.
As I thought that something was going to happen,
The man in the car stopped, got out, and walked over to the woman.
He asked, “Would you like to go over to my place and stay the night?”
She said, “Yes, thank you!”
He kept speaking to her, and she to him.
I don’t think that they know that I’m standing here.
But then he stopped speaking. So does her.
He illuminated the flashlight on her face, and says six words.
“I think that I met you...”
She said back to him in reply.
“Well, of course you did. I know you too.”
He stuttered, “How?”
He looked confused, and seemed scared of the answer.
Then, I noticed that the flashlight showed that tears were on her eyes.
“Brother, don’t you remember me?
I helped you when you were little, and you loved me best.
I always wondered how you turned out when I left you.
Well, tell me, how is mom, is she well?
And has she forgiven me for my sudden departure?”
“Sarah! Now I remember.
You were so good to me when I was young.
I cried so much when you left us, and mama grieved for five years.
Mama forgave you, she forgave you years ago.
She still lives, but now she is sick, she always wondered how you were as well.”
“I thought that you would never remember me.
Or maybe we would never cross paths again in this lifetime.
Brother, I missed you so, and now look at me!
I seem so old, and you seem so young, and we are barely five years apart.
Tell me, what did you achieve when I was gone?”
“Sarah, I did many things for mama to be proud of.
When I was in high school, I was the star athlete, the model student.
I got accepted at Harvard, with a full scholarship. Everyone was proud.
I became a medical doctor, and now I have three kids and a wife.
I wanted you to be there, as the matron of honor, but you were gone.
“And I wanted to show that I had succeeded in what I could.
But by then you were gone, and I couldn’t find you anywhere,
Not in the phone book, not when I tried a service to find your whereabouts.
Mama tried to hire a private detective, but he couldn’t find you.
Enough about me, how about you?”
Well, I was stunned to hear these words.
I wondered what their lives were like.
Why did she go? What happened to them?
I cannot believe I am trampling on this beautiful moment!
But soon, I heard her reply:
“Well, after I left, I wandered around,
Doing what I could to get food or cash, and trying to stay safe.
The argument with ma was horrible, and I wanted to apologize.
But every time I tried to send a letter, it comes back to my box unopened.
I always wondered if you had done what you promised me long ago.
“Remember that promise? The one we said when we were 10 and 5.
If one of us left, the other would do things that the missing one could not.
Well, I guess that you did, and I wonder if I had done the right thing, to leave.
That pretty much says what I had done,
And I fear that it’s too late to save my soul.”
“No, it is not.
Come with me and we’ll talk.
Everyone will be so glad to meet their long-lost-now-found family member!”
And as I watched,
He led her to the car, and they drove off, in the cold night.
Well, I thought of the incident for years.
And now I know something about it.
I think that they were fated to meet again, so faithful they were,
Brother and sister, family members.
And I think that that was a proof of true, unbroken love.
Love, in the end, prevails over all.
This family’s broken ties are mended again,
And hopefully, this cycle won’t end.
And now, I hope that I can understand who, what, where, and why.
This story will now come to an end...
Around the corner,
There was a man, with his face illuminated by a flashlight,
Looking over the steering wheel as he drove on the wet asphalt
Covered in white, pure, newly fallen snow.
As I walked toward him, at midnight, heading home from work, I stop and stare.
Across the road from where I stood
There was a homeless, little old lady, standing there in a dark alley,
With a grocery bag, filled with cans, bottles, trash,
And despite the pain that I could see on her face, she kept staring at me,
And I think that she wondered what I was doing there, in her territory.
When I looked at the man inside the car
I see darkness shrouded him within, as the night wore on,
And the little old lady, in her alleyway
Just trying to stay alive with trash in her bag,
I thought that maybe, something was going to happen.
And something did happen.
As I thought that something was going to happen,
The man in the car stopped, got out, and walked over to the woman.
He asked, “Would you like to go over to my place and stay the night?”
She said, “Yes, thank you!”
He kept speaking to her, and she to him.
I don’t think that they know that I’m standing here.
But then he stopped speaking. So does her.
He illuminated the flashlight on her face, and says six words.
“I think that I met you...”
She said back to him in reply.
“Well, of course you did. I know you too.”
He stuttered, “How?”
He looked confused, and seemed scared of the answer.
Then, I noticed that the flashlight showed that tears were on her eyes.
“Brother, don’t you remember me?
I helped you when you were little, and you loved me best.
I always wondered how you turned out when I left you.
Well, tell me, how is mom, is she well?
And has she forgiven me for my sudden departure?”
“Sarah! Now I remember.
You were so good to me when I was young.
I cried so much when you left us, and mama grieved for five years.
Mama forgave you, she forgave you years ago.
She still lives, but now she is sick, she always wondered how you were as well.”
“I thought that you would never remember me.
Or maybe we would never cross paths again in this lifetime.
Brother, I missed you so, and now look at me!
I seem so old, and you seem so young, and we are barely five years apart.
Tell me, what did you achieve when I was gone?”
“Sarah, I did many things for mama to be proud of.
When I was in high school, I was the star athlete, the model student.
I got accepted at Harvard, with a full scholarship. Everyone was proud.
I became a medical doctor, and now I have three kids and a wife.
I wanted you to be there, as the matron of honor, but you were gone.
“And I wanted to show that I had succeeded in what I could.
But by then you were gone, and I couldn’t find you anywhere,
Not in the phone book, not when I tried a service to find your whereabouts.
Mama tried to hire a private detective, but he couldn’t find you.
Enough about me, how about you?”
Well, I was stunned to hear these words.
I wondered what their lives were like.
Why did she go? What happened to them?
I cannot believe I am trampling on this beautiful moment!
But soon, I heard her reply:
“Well, after I left, I wandered around,
Doing what I could to get food or cash, and trying to stay safe.
The argument with ma was horrible, and I wanted to apologize.
But every time I tried to send a letter, it comes back to my box unopened.
I always wondered if you had done what you promised me long ago.
“Remember that promise? The one we said when we were 10 and 5.
If one of us left, the other would do things that the missing one could not.
Well, I guess that you did, and I wonder if I had done the right thing, to leave.
That pretty much says what I had done,
And I fear that it’s too late to save my soul.”
“No, it is not.
Come with me and we’ll talk.
Everyone will be so glad to meet their long-lost-now-found family member!”
And as I watched,
He led her to the car, and they drove off, in the cold night.
Well, I thought of the incident for years.
And now I know something about it.
I think that they were fated to meet again, so faithful they were,
Brother and sister, family members.
And I think that that was a proof of true, unbroken love.
Love, in the end, prevails over all.
This family’s broken ties are mended again,
And hopefully, this cycle won’t end.
And now, I hope that I can understand who, what, where, and why.
This story will now come to an end...
Another school assignment. If you read Night, you might recognize this scene. Spring 2010.
Snow Run
Marching without faltering in the ice cold wind,
Darkness is all around me.
Occasional shots, an explosion in the night
Firing on people who are too slow,
Firing on the people who wanted a rest.
We are mechanically running without a care
Even when the other people around me are falling,
Falling down dead for a second’s worth of rest,
A second’s worth of rest that lasts for all eternity.
No one is willing to stop, so we keep running,
Thinking about our own survival first.
“A few more yards,” I thought. The idea of
Death
Surrounding me stuck to me,
Close enough to touch.
I don’t want to run anymore.
Rest would be wonderful,
As long as I don’t have to feel
My aches and pains anymore,
Or the cold.
But before I do it, I look to my side.
Father.
Father running out of breath,
But forever running, and not stopping.
I can’t die.
If I did, where would my father go?
We are each other’s support.
I keep going, running.
My limbs are numb with cold,
We are famished and our throats are parched,
Legs moving mechanically
Without us.
An endless road.
Marching without faltering in the ice cold wind,
Darkness is all around me.
Occasional shots, an explosion in the night
Firing on people who are too slow,
Firing on the people who wanted a rest.
We are mechanically running without a care
Even when the other people around me are falling,
Falling down dead for a second’s worth of rest,
A second’s worth of rest that lasts for all eternity.
No one is willing to stop, so we keep running,
Thinking about our own survival first.
“A few more yards,” I thought. The idea of
Death
Surrounding me stuck to me,
Close enough to touch.
I don’t want to run anymore.
Rest would be wonderful,
As long as I don’t have to feel
My aches and pains anymore,
Or the cold.
But before I do it, I look to my side.
Father.
Father running out of breath,
But forever running, and not stopping.
I can’t die.
If I did, where would my father go?
We are each other’s support.
I keep going, running.
My limbs are numb with cold,
We are famished and our throats are parched,
Legs moving mechanically
Without us.
An endless road.
Next off, musing over friendships and accepting the past. Spring 2012.
WARNING: Subject matter may be depressing. Read at your own risk.
Fragments
Little girl, seven years old.
First grader innocent, naïve, sweet,
Unknowing what the future will hold but can already imagine
Someday holding the fruits of labor.
Making a few friends and happily playing freeze tag
Under the willow trees.
The best friend.
Time of meeting: unknown.
Location: elementary school.
Both of them are on the same page.
Instant symbiosis.
Nevertheless, you can’t say everything, even to your best friend.
Some things must stay hidden or be scrutinized by those unable to understand.
Teenage girl, seventeen years old.
Full of hopes, dreams, aspirations,
Belief in a future that is shining bright—it’s
A light in the distance
Working hard to achieve them before it’s time for college applications.
The past shall haunt you forever.
Spring of 2005.
A meeting between you, teacher, a counselor.
Diagnosis received, handouts and pamphlets given.
Just a game to the eleven year old.
Explanations are given for the
Inability to speak.
Nothing to laugh about.
Preteen girl, twelve years old.
In transition
Between the child of yesterday and the young adult of tomorrow.
Left alone to deal with her problems.
The pinnacle of immaturity is at hand.
Could anything break the illusion of hope?
4 November 2006
Innocence lost—
All it takes is a few tears,
A clothes hanger,
Threats of suicide
Utter humiliation in front of the man at the door
Translating what could not—should not—can never be said
To a mother who refuses to listen.
Allegations—that’s all it was.
Allegations of child abuse.
Photographs, a stick,
Descriptions, questions,
A web of deceit.
Locking yourself in the bathroom doesn’t solve problems.
They say speaking up helps everyone in the long run—
They lie.
Four years later.
Memory suppression works only so far—
A note written in pencil on the table in the middle of the night.
“Never forget, never forget.”
Learning acceptance takes a long time.
Young adult, eighteen years old.
Self confidence depleted
Energy for life renewed, depleted, renewed again
For the light at the end of the tunnel is so close, and yet
So far away—
Too far to reach.
Transition between dependency and independence.
Writing personal statements—rewriting the past.
Rewriting to make you look better than before.
Is it a lie?
Keep typing, not thinking,
Let the words flow out and tell your life story.
All twisted and welded to mar what the truth is.
Reviving memories long hidden.
You know the truth, but they don’t. But who cares?
A year of revelations and surprises are in store between two best friends.
Waiting for a ride home late at night.
The topic of disabilities comes up to the table.
We beat around the bush a little, before eventually coming close to the truth.
Hints are dropped, but nothing said as confirmation.
IMing time.
“How does one do personal statements? It’s so difficult!”
“I’ll help you out. Want to see some samples?”
“Yes, please.”
Open the word file,
Ctrl + C
Ctrl + V
Read the contents,
Comment as if nothing has happened.
A conversation held on the way home one evening
Consists of events from the past.
Be honest now—it is no good to lie.
It’s time to release the memory stored within and free it.
Share it with the world,
Or at the very least your best friend.
Sharing the experiences makes it more real.
Turns out he knows what I knew already,
Having faced something similar himself when it comes to allegations.
There is no shame in telling the truth now.
The time is ticking and is running short.
Deadlines are approaching fast,
So make what you have,
Hope for the best,
Accept the past for what it is.
You can’t rewind the past—
You can’t fast forward to the future—
You can’t pause the present—
There is only play.
Forever and always.
Little girl, seven years old.
First grader innocent, naïve, sweet,
Unknowing what the future will hold but can already imagine
Someday holding the fruits of labor.
Making a few friends and happily playing freeze tag
Under the willow trees.
The best friend.
Time of meeting: unknown.
Location: elementary school.
Both of them are on the same page.
Instant symbiosis.
Nevertheless, you can’t say everything, even to your best friend.
Some things must stay hidden or be scrutinized by those unable to understand.
Teenage girl, seventeen years old.
Full of hopes, dreams, aspirations,
Belief in a future that is shining bright—it’s
A light in the distance
Working hard to achieve them before it’s time for college applications.
The past shall haunt you forever.
Spring of 2005.
A meeting between you, teacher, a counselor.
Diagnosis received, handouts and pamphlets given.
Just a game to the eleven year old.
Explanations are given for the
Inability to speak.
Nothing to laugh about.
Preteen girl, twelve years old.
In transition
Between the child of yesterday and the young adult of tomorrow.
Left alone to deal with her problems.
The pinnacle of immaturity is at hand.
Could anything break the illusion of hope?
4 November 2006
Innocence lost—
All it takes is a few tears,
A clothes hanger,
Threats of suicide
Utter humiliation in front of the man at the door
Translating what could not—should not—can never be said
To a mother who refuses to listen.
Allegations—that’s all it was.
Allegations of child abuse.
Photographs, a stick,
Descriptions, questions,
A web of deceit.
Locking yourself in the bathroom doesn’t solve problems.
They say speaking up helps everyone in the long run—
They lie.
Four years later.
Memory suppression works only so far—
A note written in pencil on the table in the middle of the night.
“Never forget, never forget.”
Learning acceptance takes a long time.
Young adult, eighteen years old.
Self confidence depleted
Energy for life renewed, depleted, renewed again
For the light at the end of the tunnel is so close, and yet
So far away—
Too far to reach.
Transition between dependency and independence.
Writing personal statements—rewriting the past.
Rewriting to make you look better than before.
Is it a lie?
Keep typing, not thinking,
Let the words flow out and tell your life story.
All twisted and welded to mar what the truth is.
Reviving memories long hidden.
You know the truth, but they don’t. But who cares?
A year of revelations and surprises are in store between two best friends.
Waiting for a ride home late at night.
The topic of disabilities comes up to the table.
We beat around the bush a little, before eventually coming close to the truth.
Hints are dropped, but nothing said as confirmation.
IMing time.
“How does one do personal statements? It’s so difficult!”
“I’ll help you out. Want to see some samples?”
“Yes, please.”
Open the word file,
Ctrl + C
Ctrl + V
Read the contents,
Comment as if nothing has happened.
A conversation held on the way home one evening
Consists of events from the past.
Be honest now—it is no good to lie.
It’s time to release the memory stored within and free it.
Share it with the world,
Or at the very least your best friend.
Sharing the experiences makes it more real.
Turns out he knows what I knew already,
Having faced something similar himself when it comes to allegations.
There is no shame in telling the truth now.
The time is ticking and is running short.
Deadlines are approaching fast,
So make what you have,
Hope for the best,
Accept the past for what it is.
You can’t rewind the past—
You can’t fast forward to the future—
You can’t pause the present—
There is only play.
Forever and always.
The following was written while an argument was going on downstairs. Summer 2012.
Home
Home is where the heart yearns to be.
Home is a haven,
A place to rest and to recharge.
It’s idealized in books,
In literature,
In idiom,
In song.
It is made heavenly by paintings,
Described in glorious terms by psychologists,
Artists,
Teachers,
Doctors—
People of authority.
Home is toxic.
Toxicity oozes out of the walls.
White they are, seemly pure,
But covered with dirt,
With dust,
With crayons and graphite from many years past,
With scars from all the tacks and holes and whatnot,
With marks from who knows where.
They will never come off,
No matter how much scrubbing one does.
Toxicity floats on the air.
Like microbes, it is too small to see,
But it makes one ill to the pit of the stomach to hear it—
Words,
Transmitted by vibration, by waves,
Infused with unadulterated anger and eternal frustrations.
Listening to the toxicity makes one ill
And drives people to find a way to drown it out,
Lest it overcomes your sensibilities,
Destroys the joy that may have resided within,
And strangles the façade of innocence,
Of peace,
Of self-assurance,
Of self-worth.
What does one do when home is a prison,
A poison that seeks to destroy your inner soul?
Does that person just take it?
Or do they seek a way out?
Home here is toxic, requires hazmat suits.
Beware.
Home is where the heart yearns to be.
Home is a haven,
A place to rest and to recharge.
It’s idealized in books,
In literature,
In idiom,
In song.
It is made heavenly by paintings,
Described in glorious terms by psychologists,
Artists,
Teachers,
Doctors—
People of authority.
Home is toxic.
Toxicity oozes out of the walls.
White they are, seemly pure,
But covered with dirt,
With dust,
With crayons and graphite from many years past,
With scars from all the tacks and holes and whatnot,
With marks from who knows where.
They will never come off,
No matter how much scrubbing one does.
Toxicity floats on the air.
Like microbes, it is too small to see,
But it makes one ill to the pit of the stomach to hear it—
Words,
Transmitted by vibration, by waves,
Infused with unadulterated anger and eternal frustrations.
Listening to the toxicity makes one ill
And drives people to find a way to drown it out,
Lest it overcomes your sensibilities,
Destroys the joy that may have resided within,
And strangles the façade of innocence,
Of peace,
Of self-assurance,
Of self-worth.
What does one do when home is a prison,
A poison that seeks to destroy your inner soul?
Does that person just take it?
Or do they seek a way out?
Home here is toxic, requires hazmat suits.
Beware.
An observation about photographs leads to a musing. Summer 2012.
Photographs
A photograph.
They say that pictures can say a thousand words.
Look at the photograph. The subject: a girl.
The eyes—
Squinting in the bright sun shining in the eyes,
The smile is affected by the squint,
Causing it to distort the lips and revealing gum.
Teeth are white and pretty.
Hair is short,
Cut in such a way that it seems to get longer and longer—
The farther it gets from the face and to the nape,
The longer it gets.
Wispy it is, seemly light and fluffy,
And how dark the brown.
Due to the squint, the irises can’t be seen well.
The eyes look like black slits,
So stereotypical.
Background, a marina.
Flags fly in the background,
People are standing, sitting, taking pictures elsewhere,
And one could see the dock—
The picture was taken up high.
There are trees,
And the sky looks white,
White as the seat that the girl in the photo—the subject—
Is sitting on.
The whole?
A girl sitting on a boat in the marina.
Beyond the photo though, you can’t tell the full story.
You don’t know that the girl is looking at her best friend,
That he’s using a disposable camera to take the photograph.
And that they are on a school field trip.
You don’t know that the girl is thirteen and is on a boat for the first time.
You don’t know that she’s worried that she’ll get seasick.
And you don’t know what she is thinking that day.
Photographs may say a thousand words,
But they can’t tell the whole story, just facilitate it.
A photograph.
They can serve as triggers.
Look at these series of photographs.
The first two photographs. A baby.
Smiling at the camera,
The wide eyes of the child suggest innocence.
They are blue-grey in color.
The later photographs show a blond haired child.
First off is a school picture.
The eyes are darker now, but there is still a smile on the child’s face.
The second one shows a toddler, riding a tricycle.
Christmas morning, as the tree,
Ornamented by garlands and the like,
Suggests.
The child isn’t smiling, but you could imagine a joyous mother
Taking the picture to preserve that moment forever.
Another school picture.
The child is smiling, the shirt blue and striped,
The background blue as well.
The final picture is of the same child,
Wearing a hat that looks like Mickey Mouse,
The child is sitting on a concrete fence post of sorts in what looks like a park.
Thick it is and square.
Behind the child is a pond, a fountain, something like that.
The child is happy,
Looking ahead—
Towards a happier future?
Where did that child go?
Happiness is fleeting, and
Photographs are reminders of what has been,
What has not been,
And what has been lost.
The happy children in those photographs are lost forever,
For life reared its ugly head,
Twisted those smiles into frowns,
Tore away the innocence,
Destroyed the self-confidence, the happiness, within,
And made that child into an adult
Haunted by the demons of lost yesterdays and bad thoughts.
Where did the happy children go?
A photograph.
They say that pictures can say a thousand words.
Look at the photograph. The subject: a girl.
The eyes—
Squinting in the bright sun shining in the eyes,
The smile is affected by the squint,
Causing it to distort the lips and revealing gum.
Teeth are white and pretty.
Hair is short,
Cut in such a way that it seems to get longer and longer—
The farther it gets from the face and to the nape,
The longer it gets.
Wispy it is, seemly light and fluffy,
And how dark the brown.
Due to the squint, the irises can’t be seen well.
The eyes look like black slits,
So stereotypical.
Background, a marina.
Flags fly in the background,
People are standing, sitting, taking pictures elsewhere,
And one could see the dock—
The picture was taken up high.
There are trees,
And the sky looks white,
White as the seat that the girl in the photo—the subject—
Is sitting on.
The whole?
A girl sitting on a boat in the marina.
Beyond the photo though, you can’t tell the full story.
You don’t know that the girl is looking at her best friend,
That he’s using a disposable camera to take the photograph.
And that they are on a school field trip.
You don’t know that the girl is thirteen and is on a boat for the first time.
You don’t know that she’s worried that she’ll get seasick.
And you don’t know what she is thinking that day.
Photographs may say a thousand words,
But they can’t tell the whole story, just facilitate it.
A photograph.
They can serve as triggers.
Look at these series of photographs.
The first two photographs. A baby.
Smiling at the camera,
The wide eyes of the child suggest innocence.
They are blue-grey in color.
The later photographs show a blond haired child.
First off is a school picture.
The eyes are darker now, but there is still a smile on the child’s face.
The second one shows a toddler, riding a tricycle.
Christmas morning, as the tree,
Ornamented by garlands and the like,
Suggests.
The child isn’t smiling, but you could imagine a joyous mother
Taking the picture to preserve that moment forever.
Another school picture.
The child is smiling, the shirt blue and striped,
The background blue as well.
The final picture is of the same child,
Wearing a hat that looks like Mickey Mouse,
The child is sitting on a concrete fence post of sorts in what looks like a park.
Thick it is and square.
Behind the child is a pond, a fountain, something like that.
The child is happy,
Looking ahead—
Towards a happier future?
Where did that child go?
Happiness is fleeting, and
Photographs are reminders of what has been,
What has not been,
And what has been lost.
The happy children in those photographs are lost forever,
For life reared its ugly head,
Twisted those smiles into frowns,
Tore away the innocence,
Destroyed the self-confidence, the happiness, within,
And made that child into an adult
Haunted by the demons of lost yesterdays and bad thoughts.
Where did the happy children go?
Expose of depression. Summer 2012
WARNING: Subject matter may be depressing. Read at your own risk.
It
Open the eyes.
So tired. No desire.
Klunk, klunk, klunk, goes the clock.
Check the clock.
No energy. Let me die.
Clouds outside—
Golden red in color,
Wisps of peach and pink,
Blue sky.
Time. 7:26
Sit up. Glance at book.
Life Studies
Read a page.
Door opens, door slams.
Footsteps on stairs.
Fatigue again. Shut eye.
Name called. No response.
Hide your face, shut eyes.
Return to oblivion.
REM.
Name called.
Return to reality.
Loud voice. Anger.
Take a shower, wash your face, brush your teeth.
The mirror.
Pale with a hint of pink in the cheeks,
Hair sparkling with dew from the water,
Blank face.
Head down. Water.
Warm this time.
Grab some food—
Look at the translucent white of fat.
Does it matter?
Scoop, cover, heat up.
Add one scoop of rice.
Eating, watching the TV.
On the TV—rhythmic gymnastics. Clubs.
Loud voices—
Yelling. In anger. You’re a failure.
Yes, I am a failure. But
Yesterday. You don’t know.
You don’t care either.
Punctuality is more important than anything.
I remember. Feeling sad is not allowed.
Suppression or punishment.
Hide your inner self behind the wall.
Heading out. So much confusion, and so hot.
Arrival to the appointed address.
Check the directory. Something’s wrong.
Utter confusion. What’s going on?
Frustration, protests.
The look. Disappointment.
You are a failure, it said.
There is no need for words to express it.
Heading up, turn a corridor, find the number, wait in line.
It’s a physical, checking blood and urine, not TB here. Ugh, didn’t know.
The look again. You’re a failure. You’re stupid.
You should have listened to your mother.
Now there’s going to be elevated blood sugar, fats, etc.
The look haunts.
Needle for the blood test and
Blood for the blood god.
Relax. One prick. Feel the pressure of it going in. No pain.
Don’t think.
Don’t look at the needle.
Don’t look at the blood gushing into the plastic tubes
Dark red because lack of oxygen.
Blood for the blood god of testing.
Completed, you may go.
So much nagging on the way out.
You are a failure, you should have listened to mother.
You are unworthy, the look implied, the mind said.
You need to punish yourself.
You are not worthy of food.
Returning home.
A request to show me completed homework goes unheeded.
Mother and brother get into a shouting match.
In the meanwhile, sit upstairs. Seek oblivion.
Don’t think.
Fold clothes.
Too late. Tears fall. Utter failure.
They cannot be stemmed.
Grab the toilet paper roll to get paper to dry the eyes. It soon becomes
Wrinkled and wet with tears.
The plastic hook of a clothes hanger.
The irony of punishments.
Clothes hangers led to a meltdown the day innocence was lost.
The bottom of the hook, where it had broken off—
Rough, but not sharp enough to cut. Perfect to scratch.
Scrape out lines on the left arm,
White against the tan.
Self mutilation, even if not permanent, is so beautiful.
Tears continue to fall.
Why can’t I die?
Why is it that good people around the world die, while I,
Worthless piece of shit,
Unloved, uncared for, undesirable,
Failure in everything nonmaterial,
Still walk the earth?
I don’t deserve to live.
Let me die now.
I don’t deserve the life that I have been given.
I am not worthy of it.
Lack of energy.
Just lay on the bed.
Reading Dante’s Pugatorio provided some release.
Sudden fatigue.
The sky is too bright. Shut the eyes,
Return to oblivion.
How long was this nap?
One hour, two?
Who cares?
Time passed, who needed the measure?
It reminds people of a ticking clock
Ticking closer and closer to death.
It is so hot.
Is it the environment or is it fever?
Maybe it’s both.
Illness.
I am ill.
Mentally ill.
On the desk, a brochure.
Depression, the title squawked.
The printers used orange,
A bright color.
Now, a return to numbness.
It’s better than earlier, than yesterday, but
Life doesn’t matter anymore.
The logical side says to ask for help,
But there is no desire to ask for it.
Besides, the family would frown upon it.
You’re supposed to suppress the pain and put on a face in public.
Tears? Discouraged.
Punishment for past mental breakdowns has taught you never to ask for help.
It’s a sign of weakness.
The day innocence was lost,
The authorities had betrayed you to follow procedure.
Betrayal means that trust can never be regained.
You’re left to face it alone.
The demons of the bad thoughts box can’t go away.
Isolate yourself, and keep them away from everyone else,
For you are not worthy of people.
It would be unfair to them to have to fight the same demons on your behalf.
You’re left to fight it alone.
Open the eyes.
So tired. No desire.
Klunk, klunk, klunk, goes the clock.
Check the clock.
No energy. Let me die.
Clouds outside—
Golden red in color,
Wisps of peach and pink,
Blue sky.
Time. 7:26
Sit up. Glance at book.
Life Studies
Read a page.
Door opens, door slams.
Footsteps on stairs.
Fatigue again. Shut eye.
Name called. No response.
Hide your face, shut eyes.
Return to oblivion.
REM.
Name called.
Return to reality.
Loud voice. Anger.
Take a shower, wash your face, brush your teeth.
The mirror.
Pale with a hint of pink in the cheeks,
Hair sparkling with dew from the water,
Blank face.
Head down. Water.
Warm this time.
Grab some food—
Look at the translucent white of fat.
Does it matter?
Scoop, cover, heat up.
Add one scoop of rice.
Eating, watching the TV.
On the TV—rhythmic gymnastics. Clubs.
Loud voices—
Yelling. In anger. You’re a failure.
Yes, I am a failure. But
Yesterday. You don’t know.
You don’t care either.
Punctuality is more important than anything.
I remember. Feeling sad is not allowed.
Suppression or punishment.
Hide your inner self behind the wall.
Heading out. So much confusion, and so hot.
Arrival to the appointed address.
Check the directory. Something’s wrong.
Utter confusion. What’s going on?
Frustration, protests.
The look. Disappointment.
You are a failure, it said.
There is no need for words to express it.
Heading up, turn a corridor, find the number, wait in line.
It’s a physical, checking blood and urine, not TB here. Ugh, didn’t know.
The look again. You’re a failure. You’re stupid.
You should have listened to your mother.
Now there’s going to be elevated blood sugar, fats, etc.
The look haunts.
Needle for the blood test and
Blood for the blood god.
Relax. One prick. Feel the pressure of it going in. No pain.
Don’t think.
Don’t look at the needle.
Don’t look at the blood gushing into the plastic tubes
Dark red because lack of oxygen.
Blood for the blood god of testing.
Completed, you may go.
So much nagging on the way out.
You are a failure, you should have listened to mother.
You are unworthy, the look implied, the mind said.
You need to punish yourself.
You are not worthy of food.
Returning home.
A request to show me completed homework goes unheeded.
Mother and brother get into a shouting match.
In the meanwhile, sit upstairs. Seek oblivion.
Don’t think.
Fold clothes.
Too late. Tears fall. Utter failure.
They cannot be stemmed.
Grab the toilet paper roll to get paper to dry the eyes. It soon becomes
Wrinkled and wet with tears.
The plastic hook of a clothes hanger.
The irony of punishments.
Clothes hangers led to a meltdown the day innocence was lost.
The bottom of the hook, where it had broken off—
Rough, but not sharp enough to cut. Perfect to scratch.
Scrape out lines on the left arm,
White against the tan.
Self mutilation, even if not permanent, is so beautiful.
Tears continue to fall.
Why can’t I die?
Why is it that good people around the world die, while I,
Worthless piece of shit,
Unloved, uncared for, undesirable,
Failure in everything nonmaterial,
Still walk the earth?
I don’t deserve to live.
Let me die now.
I don’t deserve the life that I have been given.
I am not worthy of it.
Lack of energy.
Just lay on the bed.
Reading Dante’s Pugatorio provided some release.
Sudden fatigue.
The sky is too bright. Shut the eyes,
Return to oblivion.
How long was this nap?
One hour, two?
Who cares?
Time passed, who needed the measure?
It reminds people of a ticking clock
Ticking closer and closer to death.
It is so hot.
Is it the environment or is it fever?
Maybe it’s both.
Illness.
I am ill.
Mentally ill.
On the desk, a brochure.
Depression, the title squawked.
The printers used orange,
A bright color.
Now, a return to numbness.
It’s better than earlier, than yesterday, but
Life doesn’t matter anymore.
The logical side says to ask for help,
But there is no desire to ask for it.
Besides, the family would frown upon it.
You’re supposed to suppress the pain and put on a face in public.
Tears? Discouraged.
Punishment for past mental breakdowns has taught you never to ask for help.
It’s a sign of weakness.
The day innocence was lost,
The authorities had betrayed you to follow procedure.
Betrayal means that trust can never be regained.
You’re left to face it alone.
The demons of the bad thoughts box can’t go away.
Isolate yourself, and keep them away from everyone else,
For you are not worthy of people.
It would be unfair to them to have to fight the same demons on your behalf.
You’re left to fight it alone.
Sometimes illusions don't stay up forever. Summer 2012
WARNING: Subject matter may be depressing. Read at your own risk.
Questioning
Emptiness.
Numbness.
Apathy.
Complete and total apathy.
Can we pretend that airplanes
In the night sky
Are like shooting stars?
I could use a wish right now,
Wish right now,
Wish right now.
Is it possible to say goodbye to apathy?
Or is that just an illusion that I’ve just set up?
She lives in a fairy tale,
Somewhere too far for us to find.
Forgotten the taste and smell
Of the world that she’s left behind.
Perspective is everything.
It all depends on your point of reference.
It’s all about the exposure,
The lens, I told her.
The angles are all wrong now—
She’s ripping wings off of butterflies.
In my point of reference, life is just a stage, and I need to ride it out.
In your point of reference, my life is valuable, if only because I’m amusing.
(And I know there’s more to it.)
If the point of reference is the universe, then it is just a split second of eternity.
Do you ever feel like you’re a plastic bag,
Drifting through the wind,
Wanting to start again?
Do you ever feel, feel so paper thin—
Like a house of cards—
One blow from caving in?
Do you ever feel like you’re a ghost,
A mirage of what you used to be?
Do you ever feel that life is not worth the fight,
And that sometimes it might be better to end it all?
Do you ever feel already buried deep?
6 feet under, screams, but no one seems to hear a thing?
Do you know that there's still a chance for you,
'Cause there's a spark in you…
I need to be convinced.
Her prince finally came to save her,
And the rest you can figure out.
But it was a trick,
And the clock struck twelve.
Everything’s an illusion,
And the one that I built is beginning to break.
Well, make sure to build your house brick by boring brick
Or the wolf's gonna blow it down.
The wolf has already begun to blow it down,
For the illusion has already begun to crack,
And the truth within is a dark hole,
Waiting to devour everyone nearby into its dark abyss.
You don't have to feel like a wasted space.
You're original, cannot be replaced.
If you only knew what the future holds—
After a hurricane comes a rainbow.
It’s always the darkest before the dawn,
And yet…
It’s too hard to see the end of the tunnel.
Well you built up a world of magic,
Because your real life is tragic.
And that world is beginning to crumble.
It’s too late to stem the cracks, it’s already breaking.
The real world is tragic, so we all built up the illusion.
We are all guilty of it. But for some—
For some it’s breaking apart.
Tear away the illusions and what do you see?
Is there anyone out there,
‘cause it’s getting harder and harder to breathe…
Emptiness.
Numbness.
Apathy.
Complete and total apathy.
Can we pretend that airplanes
In the night sky
Are like shooting stars?
I could use a wish right now,
Wish right now,
Wish right now.
Is it possible to say goodbye to apathy?
Or is that just an illusion that I’ve just set up?
She lives in a fairy tale,
Somewhere too far for us to find.
Forgotten the taste and smell
Of the world that she’s left behind.
Perspective is everything.
It all depends on your point of reference.
It’s all about the exposure,
The lens, I told her.
The angles are all wrong now—
She’s ripping wings off of butterflies.
In my point of reference, life is just a stage, and I need to ride it out.
In your point of reference, my life is valuable, if only because I’m amusing.
(And I know there’s more to it.)
If the point of reference is the universe, then it is just a split second of eternity.
Do you ever feel like you’re a plastic bag,
Drifting through the wind,
Wanting to start again?
Do you ever feel, feel so paper thin—
Like a house of cards—
One blow from caving in?
Do you ever feel like you’re a ghost,
A mirage of what you used to be?
Do you ever feel that life is not worth the fight,
And that sometimes it might be better to end it all?
Do you ever feel already buried deep?
6 feet under, screams, but no one seems to hear a thing?
Do you know that there's still a chance for you,
'Cause there's a spark in you…
I need to be convinced.
Her prince finally came to save her,
And the rest you can figure out.
But it was a trick,
And the clock struck twelve.
Everything’s an illusion,
And the one that I built is beginning to break.
Well, make sure to build your house brick by boring brick
Or the wolf's gonna blow it down.
The wolf has already begun to blow it down,
For the illusion has already begun to crack,
And the truth within is a dark hole,
Waiting to devour everyone nearby into its dark abyss.
You don't have to feel like a wasted space.
You're original, cannot be replaced.
If you only knew what the future holds—
After a hurricane comes a rainbow.
It’s always the darkest before the dawn,
And yet…
It’s too hard to see the end of the tunnel.
Well you built up a world of magic,
Because your real life is tragic.
And that world is beginning to crumble.
It’s too late to stem the cracks, it’s already breaking.
The real world is tragic, so we all built up the illusion.
We are all guilty of it. But for some—
For some it’s breaking apart.
Tear away the illusions and what do you see?
Is there anyone out there,
‘cause it’s getting harder and harder to breathe…
Thanks for sharing.
Sorry about making you cry Erin. 
Thank you for the compliment though.