Spoken Word/ Poet/Frequent Reblogger/Member of Chocolate Outrage------
I can’t be
I can’t be the
I can’t be the same
I can’t be the same person
I can’t be the same person I
I can’t be the same person I was
I can’t be the same person I was yesterday.
Squint your eyes
Look at that outline
It’s a > sign
Quit calling kids who go to vocational school for half the day “dirty” and ridiculing them. Maybe THEN my state (WV) will have a graduation rate greater than 78%. A lot of the people bitching about getting money taken out of their checks to pay for welfare are the ones who degraded the kids until they gave up. Talent/genius is like a fingerprint; no two cases are alike. If a girl can do hair like nobody’s business, but needs a calculator for basic multiplication, she is not an idiot. If a dude can’t read well but can listen to a car and know exactly what’s wrong, he’s still damn smart. And if you grow up in a household where that is emphasized more than school, how the fuck are you supposed to believe a teacher’s word over the word of your parents?!
Just a thought…
flicker in flashes
brighter than Ritalin
REM sleep on Red Bull,
wake up in prescription cold sweats
soaked sheets rung out into
a drink of salt and chemicals,
an Ambien chaser to sleep through
barrages of neurons firing at figments
of a pharmacist’s imagination
losing the war for a
former unmedicated self
surrendering to Pfizer
for the next fix.
Blues, bruises and broken bottles
Dramatic domestication daunts the
Regrets run rampant ‘round her conscience as
free friends from far away
figure it’s nonsense
when she weaps wildly and wet-faced,
wondering why her will
hasn’t heated hot enough to
overflow and kill
Or at least fight back
Instead she comes right back
and corners in a closed closet coveting a closed casket
or an ornate opportunity
to open his
A young man lays drenched in his own blood, gasping for life while choking on death. His draining eyes are fixed at the stars as they bid farewell before sunrise. The grass around the young man has recently been kissed by the soft, yet cold lips of morning dew. His mind races through forgotten memories surrounded by bright lights as if he is in a deep sleep under some peculiar hypnosis. He attempts to speed up the memories in order to see what’s in front of him, but the hamster on the wheel inside his head is redlining.
He can feel his life gravitating away from his body. The dew slowly chases the stars up to heights that would give an eagle chills. The young man takes his last gasp before his body goes limp. His final exhalation is a long one, ridding his lungs of the very breath delivered when the doctor smacked his newborn back. The vapor from that vivacious release was the last thing the man’s body had left. His empty eyes unknowingly watch the vapor slide betwixt his lips and float up into the great beyond.
The vapor senses takes the senses with it. Everything the young man ever was is staring at the shell as if it is driving away from a house in which it grew up. It looks up at the sky, slowly growing cloudy. The day will break soon, but not hard enough to trump the overcast.
The body is discovered soon after by a group of cyclists whooshing through the park. Terrified, they call the police. They arrive within minutes in large numbers, urging everyone to step back. The yellow caution tape draws a crowd as if it is a bag of open garbage calling out to flies. The paranoia in the eyes of the bystanders casts a vibe so strong it makes everyone’s head turn to see if the Angel of Darkness is behind them, too.
The body is taken away in an ambulance straight to the basement of the hospital where the hopeless dwell. Checking his pockets, investigators find a driver’s license and student identification card. They contact his family and they are there before the phone conversation ceases. His mother, father and sister show up. The parents attempt to keep composure because they were both taught long ago that showing emotion in the company of strangers is unacceptable. The daughter feels her knees give; her body crumbles as if someone burned her wooden skeleton, leaving nothing but a pile of ash on the cold floor. She lies there, folded in disbelief, unable to comprehend the lifeless body the mortician unveiled is the same one that used to share a comforter with her on a lazy Saturday morning, eyes glued to cartoons as they mindlessly spooned sugary cereal. She begins to sweat. Memories coat her vocal cords and are projected vividly by the wails as they fill the room so full, the parents and doctors feel cornered.
Her frustration explodes as she looks up at her parents through vision blurred by tears as she recognizes if she doesn’t have her brother, she is alone. The possibility that her parents may try to finally nurture her after twelve years of being flies on the wall disgusts her; they are tourists in her memoirs. She thinks of her friends, too young to take her feelings serious. The mortician crouches down and puts a hand on her back as her parents stand like two of Medusa’s victims.
After a few moments, the mortician slowly departs from the young girl’s world and back to the parents’. He explains their son was shot twice at close range, once through the heart and once in the thigh. They begin to hash out the rudimentary details of the viewing and funeral process, then make their way back home.
The drive on the eastbound turnpike fills the car with a deafening silence, intermittently interrupted by throat clears and heavy sighs. The young girl’s emptiness allows her to dive into a sorrow too deep to be illuminated. Her parents still showed no emotion; she can see in the rear view mirror their eyes are focused on everything and nothing at the same time. Cumulus clouds siege the sunlight, killing the shadows of passing cars.
They pull into the driveway and only two seatbelts unbuckle. The father stays with two hands on the wheel. The young girl’s car door slams shut, startling the parents. The mother glances at the father for just a moment and then follows her daughter into the house. The father pulls out of the driveway, peeling out of their suburban residence with the tires squealing loud enough to make neighbors peek through blinds. They family is used to him leaving when things get hard.
Although the young man has been out of the house for two years, it still feels vacant enough to board the windows knowing he will never come back. The mother gathers her things for a shower while the sister makes her way to her brother’s room. Her courage puts her hand on the knob, but her fear immobilizes her hand. She lets go, cracks her knuckles and quickly rips open the door. She gets on all fours and peers under the bed. After rummaging through a sea of old porn magazines and love letters, she finds what she wants.
Her hand comes back out from under the bed holding a small black box. It smells odd, but familiar to her. He always knew she snooped in his room because he paid attention to detail. His only rule was that she didn’t open the little black box under his bed. She didn’t respect him enough not to snoop, but she did honor him enough to obey that rule. Her eyes dart around the room before she puts her hand on the gold latch on the side. Every breath she takes smells like a second guess. She puts the box under her jacket and stealthily walks to the back door.
Swinging it quickly makes for a creak-free opening. Flurries begin to fall in families onto blades of grass, dissolving upon impact. The young girl walks hastily toward the forest’s edge. She looks back to make sure there are no silhouettes in the window, and disappears from the house’s view. Wet leaves blanket the ground; the moisture seeps through her canvas shoes and wool socks.
She reaches a stream she and her brother played in as kids. Painfully joyful memories flow through her mind in sync with the rhythm of the rushing water. Without reluctance, she sits on the drenched ground and plops the box on her lap. She open sit at a speed quick enough to move a few stray strands of her hair, and is struck with surprise.
The box is filled to the top with marijuana. She dumps it out, and a thick hardback book falls out after all the green. As it chases the waterfall of green, she attempts to catch it; the weight is distributed in an uncharacteristic way. The book slips through her grasp and falls to the ground awkwardly. It falls open to a middle page face down on the leaves. Her youthful hand picks up the book by the front cover, and a black handgun falls out of the middle pages.
Confused, she opens the book to find a gun-shaped hole cut out through all the blank diary pages. The trigger feels satisfying on her index finger as she picks it up. Her exhausted eyes scan the gun, searching for the safety button. She flips it off and points the barrel under her chin. She tilts her head up, facing the sky with her mouth agape as wide as it can go for one last breath; her lungs fill with vitality. As the trigger finger begins to approach its breaking point, a snowflake falls on her tongue like a guided missile. It takes like sugary cereal and tough love. It is as warm as feet under a comforter, but feels as stern enough to know not to ask questions.
Chilled warmth wraps around her body. She drops the gun into the stream and walks back home.