Impossible Reality

The breeze lifts my hair to the sky,

to the sun,

to the curve of my right ear.

He takes a large stride,

pauses when my face contorts,

tilts his head,

and steps back.

I can hear his mind’s voice

melting into my ear,

whispering,

desperate,

questioning.

My heart beats a mile a minute,

my thoughts blurred by

the brushstrokes of his hurt voice.

I reach out my hand to his,

but he pulls back.

His eyes glisten.

He starts to turn.

I feel half of me drift away

like a soul that leaves its body

in a horror movie.

Every stride he takes

makes me wonder

how I long for him

and still feel nothing.

How does a man love his child

but never hug her?

How does a cat feel content

but never purr?

How does a dog play fetch

but never wag her tail?

How do I let him walk away

and still not kiss him?

His feet step forward:

one on the white lines,

one on my chest.

The last of my hope shatters

as he curves around the bend

and disappears into the blinding sun.



A Moment In Thoughts

I hear them crying outside my room.

They think the walls are soundproof.

They’re not.

There are just a few seconds before I have no presence.

It’s like a blank before I faint.

This blank is forever.

I’m going blind.

I’m going deaf.

I can’t smell.

I can’t taste.

I can’t feel.

I won’t think.

I won’t love.

I won’t remember.

I won’t hope.

I will leave everyone behind.

They will keep remnants of me.

My will.

My grave.

My tombstone.

The bracelet I gave my daughter when she graduated.

The suit I gave my brother when he got married.

I will have nothing of them.

I will leave it all behind.

Slowly…

I am…

Gone…



The Master

Eep… I fell again…

Right foot forward.

Left foot forward…

And… I fall again…

Daddy, stop!

Stop laughing!

Sissy walks to me.

I am annoyed.

How does she walk?

How do humans do this?

I take another step and fall.

Mommy runs and picks me up.

I swing my legs.

I whine.

She puts me back down.

I try to run like her.

Oof… And I’m down again.

No fair!

Sissy can walk.

Mommy can run.

Daddy can run.

I just fall.

Sissy takes my doll.

She walks to her room.

I growl and scream.

That’s it.

I’m getting my doll.

I walk.

Right foot forward.

Left foot forward.

Right foot.

Left foot.

Right.

Left.

I see sissy.

I take the doll.

She claps.

She hugs me.

Daddy and Mommy clap.

I smile. I did it!

I walked!

I didn’t fall!

I am the master.

 

Back of the Class

I can’t see the writing on the board

or what my teacher is holding up

or the gestures she is making.

 

I can’t hear the videos on the screen

or when the quiet student asks a question

or what my teacher says.

 

I turn off my phone before class.

I take notes the best I can.

I never eat in the room.

 

I try my best to pass.

I do nothing wrong.

I love to learn.

 

People think I sit in the back to use my phone,

that I sneak out the back door to cut class,

that I pass notes to my neighbors under the table.

 

They don’t know that I sit in the back to hide my face,

that I sneak out the back door so I don’t panic,

that I hold a stress ball under the table.

 

They don’t know my name.

 

They Think I’m a Typical Jock

The stick hits the ball.

My hand shoots the ball.

The bat strikes the ball.

Anything with moving a ball:

You name it,

I’ve done it.

You name it,

I’ve also hated it.

But it’s better that I hit a ball

than that I get hit.

When you never do anything

at school,

before school,

or after school,

people ask questions.

No one questions a jock.

So I hit, shoot and strike balls.

If anyone asks,

my bruises are sports injuries.

I wish they were from sports.

I must have been an awful baby,

because my family hates me.

My mom starves me for a week

if I don’t do the laundry,

and my dad throws me against the wall

if I don’t make dinner for the five of us.

My older sister stops talking to me for a year

if I don’t get her a dress for her birthday,

and my older brother rapes me at night

if I don’t tutor him one day.

So I hit, shoot and strike balls.

Anything is better than being at home.

 

If My Mind Went on Strike

The pen is in my hand.

The story is in my mind.

There’s no such thing as not thinking.

I’m always thinking.

Always getting new ideas,

always mentally writing my next poem.

Always storing new quotes,

always planning a new plot line.

I don’t know what I would be thinking

if I wasn’t constantly creating.

Maybe I would be pondering

what sandwich tastes the best,

or what my favorite color is,

or what shirt I want for my birthday.

Would my mind be blank?

Void of thoughts,

of stories,

of ideas?

Would I then be able

to carry a conversation

with the teenager next door?

Or would I just lose myself?

Would I suffer eternal depression

if my mind went on strike?

If being creative makes me different,

I don’t want to be the same.