Veritas

I used to play the violin,
Now it sits under my bed.
I promise I'll start again,
But I think it will be when I'm dead.

The only time it will be played is after the estate sale,
When the next little girl promises she will be a famous violinist,
If her parents would only buy her my violin.

I love that violin.

Is it still love when I can't bear to look at it anymore?

I got angry at my mom for no reason

the only side of me she sees is my anger
i don't have the fun loving, sit down, drink tea relationship
i am not my sister.

she doesn't see how highly of speak of her to my friends
i rarely tell her how much i admire her.
and love her.
how great a mom she has been.

she brings out a rage in me by asking me to do the simplest tasks.

i think i only get angry because i am not more like her.
i don't like myself.
i don't want to wash the dishes.
i've been sad for a week.
no one's noticed. probably because i'm always in my room.
i rarely see my family, so how could they?

i am a stranger in their house,
an extended family member they see on important holidays.
or when i'm angry.

asking me to clean a pot should not be this hard for her.
but it shouldn't be hard for me to clean a pot.
it's not laziness.
i don't know what it is.
i don't want to be angry at my mom anymore.

i didn't even feel angry.
i was just yelling.
i just didn't want to clean the pot.
anger.
i don't think thats the right word.
when i'm driving.
when i'm cleaning.
when i'm talking to my mom.
i can't be annoyed, just "angry"

i can't yell at my dad anymore.
he worked so hard to stop yelling at me.
but is it fair to yell at my mom instead?
she never yells back.
she's so tired.
so am i.
i don't want to be angry with my mom anymore.

HFD–> WAS

I always thought I could not be loved. Not the way other people were.

But it was a seven hour trip. Complete boredom. Chug.chug.chug.

And then he was here. It was my birthday. He said he loved me, but he was drunk.

Months later. Another seven hour train. Chug.chug.chug.

And then he was here again. “I love you”. sober.

And for a minute, I knew I had been wrong.

But then “It’s too far” and “This is too hard”

And “It kills me every time I have to leave”

And “I can’t come back again”

And then I thought I had been right all along.

It’s funny how you forget when you meet people. I don’t remember meeting my best friends. I don’t remember the first time I saw him. I don’t remember what I thought. On FaceTime. In person. None of it.

It’s funny how you remember the things people say. I remember “I am literally obsessed with you.” “Let’s have kids. A house in Virginia”. I remember “marry me”. In bed. Outside. Drunk. All of it.

It”s funny how you remember the way people make you feel. I remember sadness. I remember manic episodes, depression. “I would find you attractive, but I just can’t get passed some features”. I remember love. Inside. Outside. All of it.

It”s funny how it ends. Talking. Analyzing. “I am bad for your mental health”. “I love you. Always”. I don’t remember enough. But I remember all of it.

I wish we had more time to remember.

My Inferno

That I would hang myself in the sky outside your window

and slowly reach my hand out to the sun,

claiming its fire as my own.

One more bright star in your sky,

a bloody inferno.

So that when you look out,

there is one more small piece of joy.

I am all I have

to give.

Darkness,

Climbing, pulling void.

Questions with no answers,

Clawing at the soul.

Nails ripping,

Entering,

Gripping,

Crushing the heart.

Fills the body.

Tears,

Strips the soul,

Widening the hole

Of doubt

And emptiness.

Possess the being.

Darkness.

Him

He is the sea and I am the shore.

He flows as wild and free as the white-capped waves

and I, as confined and unmoving as the stagnant land

He is the sky and I am the earth.

He soars as swiftly and unpredictably as the mischevious wind

and I, as compact and caged as the senile platelets.

He is the moon and I am the sun.

He changes as constantly and distinctly as the waxing moon

and I, as alone and consistent as the daily sun.

He is the soul and I am the body.

He feels as deeply and richly as his wild spirit

and I, as lifeless and shallow as my earthbound corpse.

who

will stop

this eneding circle

of joy

and pain

of love

and brokenness

of peace

and chaos

of life?

who?

Why

why

am i

doing this

torturing myself

until i am brittle

burning

combusting

all because

i can’t stop.

Dead Poets Society

First there was the new kid

Thoughtful, logical, and shy.

He dreamt of a sweaty toothed madman

His YAWP rang through the sky

Next there was his roommate

The passionate, dreaming Puck.

He tried to live his dream, but

His father kept him stuck

Then there was the lover,

Persistent, brave, and kind.

He read her poems and brought her flowers,

He refused to leave her behind.

Fourth, there was the giant,

With an unfortunate name.

A man with a love of music,

Bound in a literal frame.

Nuwanda, the next boy,

Overflowed with confidence.

He talked to God once or twice,

And rushed to his friends’ defense.

The traitor of the group,

Crowned with the fires of hell,

Turned on friends to save himself,

Nuwanda wished him well.

Last there was the Captain,

The wisest of them all.

He taught them to be extraordinary,

His teaching brought his fall.

And so the Dead Poets Society

Was convened so all could say

“Make your lives extraordinary!

Carpe Diem! Seize the day!”