Poetry

The Bright Side

Through shattered windows and broken glass
Through drawn back curtains, unspoken pasts
Beneath the sills of dreams without
And underneath your selfish doubt
In spite of what your ghosts may say
Amid the fields where fantasy lay
Notwithstanding the negatives
Waiting for reveries to give
In place of where your nightmares hide
Where fears to put you down abide
It forces you to look away
Upon the place where silence gave
In coldest corners with backgrounds lit
Where all the darkest shadows sit
Above the morals that drift so low
Basking in the afterglow
Between the wind and unshed tears
Despite your deepest darkest fears
And through the reeds so well concealed
Is all the hope you wish was real
It lies in wait, untouched, the same
As ever been
Until today


The Girl in the Mirror

The girl in the mirror is not me
A reflection of the person I used to be
Her eyes are turned down
Her smile is wry
You can hear in her laughter
Emotions run dry
I know it’s not me
Because my eyes are bright
My grin fills onlookers with great shining light
I guess what it is, it shows who I am
Inside, not alright, what you see is a scam
The girl in the mirror, worse for wear or less
P.S. I never changed
I just got tired of being depressed


Elaborate Masquerade

Like a masquerade, wearing masks
Watching all the star eyed people dance
Faceless, nameless liars, cheats, and crooks
Giving ones who pass secret dirty looks
Accepting for what’s said, but never to become
Not doubting fabrications, ties that come undone
Unraveling at your fingertips, watch what you say
The deceitful life you live, elaborate masquerade


Nightmares

A nightmare is only your darkest reality
Who is to say that it’s only a dream?
Lost in conviction, give no attention
Throw it away to the reasons you scream

You can’t shake this feeling
A feeling that everything’s going to waste
You are treading fiction
Fighting emotions that can’t be erased

Light can be nothing without darkness
Darkness is knowing not what is to come
Your ignorant deftness
Is only in helping the coldness turn numb

Laying awake at night, stare to the sky
Blocked by the ceiling, your thoughts turning wry
Try to supress that melancholy smile
Drift into a direful escape for a while…


Letters to the Editor

Dear editor, I think you wrong
Your thoughts are too provocative!
With every word you’re pumping out
Is making all the people doubt
The status quo in which we live!

-Concerned

Oh, dear concerned, you’re wholly right
But can’t you see that that’s what’s wrong?
We don’t know what is best for us
So why can’t you just be gracious
This change is what they gravely long

-Editor


Too Far

Did you ever stop and think maybe you took it too far?
Did the morose words that spewed from your foul mouth ever once enter your thoughts?
Or was the convoluted image you spread a heat of the moment creation?

Faulting to my lethargy, doors to emotions left ajar
And did you notice that as you spoke, my tremulous limbs, the tears I fought?
Or were you lost in your effervescent dreams, my dreary evocation?

To permeate my gleeful thoughts, I commend
For past your gaudy stories that plunged into me like knives
And past my stoic expression, there was a sadness about me

You must not have contemplated a good natured end
With all your jaunty remarks, behind your shallow eyes
The tale you told of sultry acid, scars run deep

No, I am not mad with you
How could I be? The salt you spilt was justified
But yes, I am hurt, and you were out of line

I hope it made you laugh, earned a smile or two
I hope it made you feel good, do you get off when people cry?
If you feel what you did was right, that’s fine

I will not judge you for this, if you think I deserve it. Let it scar.
But did you ever stop and think
Maybe you took it too far?


Literature

A/N - This piece is an unfinished work that is being written in monolougue format. It’s about four misfit children with no direction in their lives and the trials they face everyday. Since the piece is unfinished, the fourth child has not been introduced yet and isn’t planned to be introduced until much later in the story.

Nevaeh

My name is heaven spelled backwards.
I always thought that was kind of ironic, considering my situation and all. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I think it’s great. The name, not my situation, I mean. I just don’t think it’s a great name for me. A lot of people like to ask me what exactly my “situation“ is that influences me to find my name so hilarious. I don’t much like getting into it, really, so I just excuse it and say I have TB. That’s tuberculosis, by the way. Which I do, have tuberculosis. I’m not lying if that’s what you’re thinking. I only said excuse because that’s about the most vague answer I could give. I guess if I got into details it would be more a long the lines of, I have an immune system disorder that makes my TB practically incurable, therefore I’ll probably die within the next few months, but like I said, I don’t much like getting into it. Although, you don’t have to believe me. I don’t care. Believe whatever the hell you want. It’s a free country. See if I care.
Some people ask me if I should call it a condition, more, since it’s really only a disease, but there’s a reason I call it what I do. See, the definition of a condition is a state of health, and I really don’t think that describes it at all. However, a situation is described as a combination of circumstances or events of significance. Which, it really is. I think it’s not exactly the condition that lead me to be the way I am, but more that the disease influenced a lot of my life. So, really, it’s not much of a condition at all. People always want to know what‘s so significant about my disease, and I have to tell them all about my horrible life story and how I infected my mother, and usually I end up boring or scarring that person so much that they end up too afraid to even talk to me or be in the same area because they don’t want to end up with this awful plague, too. So, due to this, whenever people ask me what caused me to be the way I am, I say I’m in a pretty bad situation. Well, I don’t have to tell them. But maybe I’ve deluded myself into thinking that they might help me if I tell them why they’re helping me. They usually don’t. People. They’re so like that.
I guess it’s almost become rehearsed, the speech, the questions and answers, and everything. I talk about it a lot. I’m not conceited, though. Don’t think for a second I’m conceited, because if there’s one thing I’m not, it’s conceited. I hate talking about myself. But, people like to stop me in the street and ask. I guess I shouldn’t mind, really. They’re just curious people, passing by a weird beggar kid in a medical mask. It‘s different, and they want to know. I’m not offended when people ask me, you know. It just gets annoying. Actually, if you were to ask me any of your questions, I’d probably cheerfully describe all the ways I’m expected to die in the next year, and I’ll smile and crack jokes and laugh, and then every once in a while I’ll throw into a coughing spasm and choke out blood and gasp my lungs sore and you won’t do anything to help me. You get to see just what it’s like to be me for a minute, and even though you feign interest and concern and ask me if I’m alright and pat my back and hand me your handkerchief, which I kindly refuse, you really don’t care about me. I talk to a lot of people everyday. None of them really ever help me.
That’s why I’d rather not talk about my situation at all.
I’ve gone to clinics, to try and get some help. But the health care sucks. You all think that people who live on the streets are lazy bums, but what you don’t realize is that your wondrous country is passing through life everyday ignoring cries for help, leaving people like me to die in the streets. Because yes, we are people too, not just common street rats. I have gone to clinics and they always do what they can. As socialist they can possibly be without passing the thin white capitalism line. They usually just shoot me full of antibiotics, hand me my usual blue medical mask, and label me with a life expectancy. Last time I went, a week ago, they said a year, maximum. It think it’s funny that they can label me with my life.
I think it’s hilarious that my name is heaven spelled backwards when I know heaven doesn‘t exist.

Annalis

Would someone please mind telling me where the name Annalis came from? My name is Dorothy. Please do not call me Annalis, because my name is Dorothy. I do not even know where the name came from, or who thought of it, but I do not think it is funny or nice. Please do not call me Annalis.
I don’t think I’m in Kansas anymore.

Adrian

People think I’m weird because I can’t speak. I have a lot to say, and I think they know it. But I can’t speak. People like to automatically think that because I can’t speak I’m a very good listener. I’m not. If you need a good listener, get a cat. Or better yet, get a fish. They’ll always listen to you. I don’t speak though. Or listen very well, either. I’m not a stereotype, and I don’t want to be one. I’m don’t want be to labeled as the “oor kid who can’t speak, but if you’re having problems talk to him because he’ll understand.“ I won’t understand. And I really don’t care. And I don’t want your charity. I’m glad I don’t speak. It makes me stand out.
But there are days when I wish I could stand out and fit in at the same time.


A/N - These selections are examples of creating moods in writing. It was a homework assignment. These expressions in no way reflect any of my feelings, states of mind, or current moods. They are extreme examples of extreme moods and in no way reflect any part of me. Not much more to say. Enjoy.

Gloominess
You know how most people have that one very first memory, the one that’s the earliest part of your life? The one that’s usually some unimportant little moment of tenderness that seems completely irrelevant, the one that doesn’t effect anything major in your life, the one that you hang on to even though you know you don’t need to, but somehow, it makes all the difference? It’s the point at which your brain sort of clicked into place, and viola, suddenly you’re completely aware of what’s going on around you. Most people have that memory. My friends, my family, they all have that memory. I used to have it, too. I used to be like everyone else. Somewhere, though, somewhere along the way, I forgot it. I forgot just what exactly I think is important in life, and suddenly, I couldn’t tell one memory from the other. Somewhere in this crazy excuse I call my life, I forgot the earliest thing that ever mattered.
It makes all the difference.
Now, I have plenty of “earliest memories”. I remember so many things about my childhood. I remember climbing onto the arms of the couch, and being scolded for climbing on the furniture. I remember exactly what went through my head one hour before my father died. I remember the fight my parents had over the microwave before we went to the beach one summer’s evening. I even remember when my dad offered to hold me on his shoulders so I could go surfing, too.
I said no. I regret it.
The funny thing is, I remember all these things. I remember that one hour before I got home, one hour before my mom told me my daddy had died, I had been thinking about how much I might like to play Barbies with him when I got back to our little home in Houston. I remember how it was a home before he died. And how in that instant, it went from a home to a house, and nothing more. I remember that empty feeling I had in my heart where he was supposed to be, where his goodbye was supposed to be, and where my hello was supposed to be. I still have that empty space. I just don’t feel it so much anymore. The funny thing is, though, is that a lot of these things never even happened.
I think that when you’re four, and your daddy dies, it screws with your head a little bit.
I know that most of these things never happened. I know that my mom and dad never fought over the microwave, and I know that chances are, I wasn’t thinking about my daddy at all before he died. I know that I’ve been feeding myself these lies so much now that I can’t tell the truth from them. It doesn’t matter. It’s nice to be able to remember myself as caring. Even if I wasn’t.

Loneliness
It was so cold in that corner of the basement, where the water dripped along the side of the grey walls, and puddled on the hard cement floor, where the spiders made their webs along the sticky, residue covered ceiling. It was so cold, and yet that was where he sat, each day, and did not move. His breathing was slow and methodical, his limbs hanging helplessly at his sides. No one ever came visit him there, no one ever came to check on him. Sometimes he wondered if anyone would notice he wasn’t there. Sometimes he wondered if anyone would notice if he died. There were days when he would see a wan light coming from the door atop the stairs from the house, a slight crack in the darkness, but it would be gone just as quickly as it came. Sometimes he wondered if it had even been there, and he was sure it had been, because for the split second it was there, it was a little warmer in his cold, cold corner. He knew someone was there, then, because that warmth came from a friend. He was lonely, and it was so cold.

Depression
I stared listlessly into the water-smudged mirror in front of me, the water running down the drain growing hotter and slowly burning my hand as I ran my fingers through the liquid. It was painful, but just a little. It didn’t bother me much anymore. Nothing really did. There had been a point where I had wanted to look in the mirror, in this same place, and not hate the person staring back, with those dark brown eyes and short, dirt brown hair. There had also been a point where I had tried in vain to see a different person looking back. A happy person. A person who wasn’t so confused. Now, I really didn’t care. It didn’t matter that my eyes were filled with a desperation, a longing to be understood, or the way my lips turned down just slightly at the corners, or the way my eyes were seemingly permanently turned down, magnifying the starved expression. It didn’t affect me anymore. That isn’t to say I didn’t notice, though. I noticed. I noticed how my pain hurt all of my friends, their giddy, preppy friend long lost to the thoughts consuming my heart. I noticed how when I was around them, I didn’t smile like I used to, and how I had to fake a laugh whenever they got worried about me. They were worried a lot lately, and I was laughing a lot lately. I shouldn’t have to notice these things. How badly I wanted to look into the mirror and care. I wanted to care about how unhappy I looked. Care about how much I hurt everyone. But I was being who I was, and if that meant I would be treated like an animal, then I would settle for taking my punishment. The water was steaming now, and my skin was angry red, and it felt so good. Pain is the only way I know I’m human anymore, that I still feel.
Even if pain is what’s taking that away.

Poverty
He was so hungry. He stomach was snarling in pain, begging for food. His swollen belly was bouncing along as he walked, each time sending a shot of torturous pain up his spine. The small, mud hut he lived in was dark inside, the only light coming in through the collapsing doorway. The sun was setting, and soon he would be confined to another sleepless night, wondering if he would wake tomorrow if he let himself sleep. The poor boy sat in the one small chair fashioned from dirty, rotting wood in the back of the small space and placed his head in his hands. Silent tears fell from his blood-shot eyes like they always had, dripping on the floor. Sometimes, he would try and catch the tears on his tongue, anything to moisten his dry lips. He had stopped trying long ago. Why live like this? And yet here he was, still breathing. Was this punishment? Was he not allowed to die? What had he done? What had he done to deserve this torture? Maybe tonight he would let himself sleep. He would pray, before he slept. What would he pray for?
To rest in piece.

Defeat
Every door in the world had been open for him. Colleges of all sorts were begging for him, the one genius child who had scored perfect on his SATs, who had never missed a day of school in his life, who’s grades had never faltered below perfect, not even for primary school. Businesses and studios, factories, any workplace you could have imagined were wrapped around his finger, waiting for him to become a part of them. Girls were swooning over him, his handsome looks and his abundant money. He had everything he could have ever wanted, except her. Because through all of those beautiful girls vying for his attention, he only wanted her. She, with her dazzling smile and long golden hair, and fair skin like peaches. And she barely even knew he existed, didn’t care that he was so madly in love with her. He spent years trying to grasp her attention, trying to let her know just how perfect they would be for each other, but he never succeeded. After years of all his hard work, he had finally just given up. He spent his life under a rock, scorning his pathetic existence, ignoring the world as it passed before his eyes. And that was ultimately his downfall. When he had finally picked himself up and begun his life again, when he was ready to start fresh, it was too late. The world had already closed it’s doors.

Irony
She looked at me, as we sat there together on that bus station bench, watching the wind as it swirled around the buildings and the dying grass as it screamed for moisture that would never come. “The city is disgusting,” I said to her. She didn’t say anything, so I went on. “The city can make the stars in the sky look like garbage. I want to leave. I don’t want to be here, where the plants are dying, and the dead are left in the street.” She turned to me, with those big blue eyes and blonde hair, her hands cradled in her lap. Her hood was pulled up over her head, framing her angelic face, and almost made it look demonic. I noticed her bus was coming up the street, it wouldn’t be long before she left. The thought gave me chills.
“Do you know what my doctor said?” She asked me. I shook my head and she smirked, a sad little thing. “She said when the world feels as if it’s slipping through your fingers,” she held out her shaky palms toward the sky and spread her fingers apart, “Clutch your fists and fight it,” she whispered and closed her hands, and they shook with anger for a second, and then everything relaxed. She giggled. “How am I supposed to do that? Fight it.” She mused and laughed harder, until she was in hysterics. She laughed so hard tears streamed down her face. I didn’t understand. She wasn’t making any sense. I was going to ask her what she meant, but her bus pulled up and she nearly tripped in her haste to get inside. She turned to wave goodbye to me, still giggling a little. “Goodnight, Danny, I’ll miss you. Thanks,” she said to me, before she turned around and sped to the back row of seats. I was confused at first, but then I remembered. She was on her way home, and so I didn’t let her eerie words disturb me.
That night, I received a phone call. The world had slipped through her fingers, and she hadn’t fought hard enough. She was gone.
That night, I left the city.

Bitterness
The middle-aged secretary was staring at me from her desk, I could feel it. I took a deep breath and looked at the shining steel toes of my boots, thinking maybe she’d get bored of me and look at her typewriter or the fresh coffee stain on the front of her shirt. But she didn’t stop. I glanced up to cloudy sapphire eyes with red lines in the whites peering at me over pearlescent-rimmed reading glasses on a rainbow-beaded chain. The scrunched expression of dislike on her puffy face was palpable enough the moment I stepped into the offices, but now, she was just being rude. My head jerked up and I sneered at her disdainfully. Her face twitched in response and her eyes planted themselves on the desktop. Her cheeks flushed red. I snorted and adjusted my position on the short difficult wood bench.
Barely the second Monday of the fiscal school year, and the Powers That Be already had me queued up for the shrink. Set one dumpster on fire your freshman year and they never forget! I sat in the tiny waiting room that served the counselors offices in the administration building. These offices were right across the narrow hall from the nurses station and the Office of Administrations, whatever that meant anymore. Seems they just kept packing the kids in without a thought as to where and who and what anymore, accurate file keeping be damned. This place was always so depressing. Grey and grey-green glossy paint, terrible foe-marbled mold-green tiles from the Fifties, sound-buffering boards with a specific number of pinholes for the ceiling coupled with old neon lights. Rust on the painted steel and long frosted bulbs flickering every few feet. The school board really went out of their way to make this place a definitive institution. Impressive.
Yeah, institution of learning. What a joke. Reminded me of jail or bedlam.

Helplessness
The woman let out a strangled sob as she hopelessly tried to pull her daughter’s fragile body from the rubble. People around her were trying desperately to pry her from the limp being covered in soot and broken glass, but she did not release her hold on the little girl’s arms, and ignored their commands for her to get out. She ignored the searing pain in her lungs, and the fire that crackled around her, and the fireman that had his arms firmly wrapped around her waist. Someone needed to help her daughter! Someone needed to save her! If God would just let the woman die, and let her beautiful little girl live! Everyone around her knew that the woman’s screams were useless, but the woman wondered why no one was helping her, why no one had even tried to save her little girl. She continued to cry, to scream, to shriek, and vowed to never stop until her little girl was alive again. The firemen around her all grabbed a part of her body, and forced her to leave the collapsing, burning building. They had no choice. They wanted so badly to give the woman her daughter back, but they couldn’t. The little girl was already too far gone. It would be cruel to bring her back to this world when she could have everything she wanted in heaven. Somewhere, in the back of the woman’s mind, this registered, but she was too ruled by her own selfishness to understand this. So she fought until her last breath, but finally her vow was broken, and she screamed no more, and the little girl never woke up.

Sinister
Thin, blood red lips curled into a sinister smile and long, sharp black fingernails curled into her arm, trapping her in her spot. Navy blue eyes bore into her own, pearly white teeth barred. The woman was so deathly, so violent, she could have sworn she saw a malicious twinkle to the womans eyes as they both stood there, entranced by each other’s presence. “So,” The evil woman said, “It has come to this.”
“Yes, has it,” the young girl said. Her voice was so light, so easy, you would never tell how much danger she was in, how heart hard was trembling with terror. The woman let out a great, deep, booming laugh. She tightened her grasp on the girl’s arm, who winced. Right, at that moment, the girl was sure her heart may jump right out of her chest. She chose to be brave, though, and closed her eyes. She sucked in a breath. She was so tired, she didn’t even fight in those last seconds. She just let it happen.
She never exhaled that final breath.

Laziness
He hadn’t done his homework again. Big surprise there, really. Adam’s expression was stoic as he reclined back in his desk chair, watching the teacher pace around the room with dull eyes. He could barely make out the rambling words being shot off from his pre-algebra teacher through his headphones, which were blaring a hard drum solo into his ears, damaged from so many rock concerts. His feet rested easily on the metal basket underneath the desk of the girl in front of him, a brainy girl who usually left her papers uncovered, allowing him to copy her when necessary. For someone with such good grades, he thought she was pretty stupid to not notice his constant cheating. Or maybe she did and took pity on him. He didn’t know. Regardless of the girl’s feelings toward his slacker attitude, life was pretty alright for him. He didn’t even try in school, got nearly straight A’s, and spent his weekends relaxing and neglecting any school projects he may have been assigned. After all, he had group mates for that, right? Yes, life was good.