oh sometimes, I look for an invisible poet
living in my head.
I recall the days when words flew out of my fingertips
typing, writing, scribbling anywhere and everywhere
I would be on the bus, on my way to see an art exhibit
down south of the town
where art was just a name for broken buildings and demolished dreams
I thought they were beautiful because someone used to live there
someone decorated that place with curtains and pictures of their dogs on the mantle
but that someone is no longer there.
I sit there in front of the broken house, on the un-mowed lawn,
the weed and the dirt tickling my legs
I imagine what it was like to live in the ghost town
to have a life, to have a wife, to have a family.
I know it was a man who lived in this home
because his flannel shirt still hangs on the washing line
was he killed? did he have a stroke? did he lose his job? where is his dog?
I write.
I write the story of a man I’ve never met in a place down the south that does not exist
because my mind works in strange ways
I see things others don’t. Some call me crazy.
Am I?
Shame on you if you believed magic was real!
Or if you really thought dragons once lived.
It drives me crazy how I see a man in a broken home, his flannel shirt flying
against the wind
and
I get sent into therapy.
Tag: poetry
Sweet Summer of Twelve
Sweet summer of twelve standing in the balcony of my room
on the third floor of our huge house facing the gurgling river a few yards ahead,
I felt a touch of sky dropping on my shoulders.
Gods had given me a gift- the weight of the whole world rested inside my frail heart.
I remember it was the same fall of twelve, a few months later
I was standing in the same balcony,
only it was the sky that was gurgling. Pouring and screaming, clashing and crying.
I stood there in the middle of the night. Not quite in the middle; it was 2 a.m.
I hated the rain, and I wanted to die.
I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t jump, I couldn’t cut, I couldn’t overdose.
I was weak. I was brave. I was unhappy. I was not enough. I was never enough.
I stood in the rain to torture myself. I was scared of the thunder. I was controlling my fears.
I felt limitless.
I thought a lot about suicide that night. Sounds insane but I wanted a chance.
One shot at the power to control my life; even if it meant during my death.
Sometimes freedom is all you really need.
Freedom. Freedom. Freedom.
I moved places, I saw faces, I saw freedom, I saw more pain. The more you have, the more you need.
Freedom is to dive off cliffs and kiss strangers, smoke pot and watch the stars, sleep until you drift away into oblivion, wake up, pack your bags, and
move on someplace else because the freedom you have is not enough.
Freedom is to let go of such expectations, yet hold on to your dreams, embrace your sadness, turn it into a weapon,
feel every single breath your lover takes,
see the grass, see the sky, see yourself in the mirror, see what you really are and not look away.
Wild winter of fifteen, I stand in a different balcony looking at a lake
calm and vast, the weight of the grey sky turning it into a deep shade of silver.
It looks beautiful.
The same winter of fifteen, I choose to live.
Live while I’m alive, live after I die, my organs in the bodies of strangers,
my dreams in the minds of millions,
my sadness in the struggles of every depressed person,
my hopes in the insides of their hearts.
I cry. You cry.
I am depressed. My friend has social anxiety.
Another one is schizophrenic.
Another one told me he was seeing a therapist.
I am depressed. You are not.
Yet we are the same.
One day we shall realize that the borders we have
are just lines on sand
easy to create, easier to cross.
I shall donate my organs, you shall donate your hopes.
Hopes and organs and bodies and dreams and
hurts and fears
different for each, same for all.
The universe stops only at a full circle.
TheHyperteen 