The Sixteenth Entry: Words.

Love

1. Cotillion

2. Unconditional

3. Dichotomy

4. Agoraphobia

5. Deplorable

6. Cherry

7. Wanderlust

8. Witness

9. Heiress

10. Hydrangea

Hate

1. Whatever

2. Absolutely

3. Like

4. Pram

5. Ebony

6. Arkansas

7. Panties

8. Briefs

9. Rape

10. Jehovah

I’d Rather Be...

Working on prom

Sleeping

Laying in bed

Watching YouTube

Shopping

I’ll Never Forget.

I’ll never forget when she told me she was pregnant at 14 years old.

I’ll never forget how she looked at me as she walked home.

I’ll never forget the text I got telling me she had died.

I’ll never forget the day they pulled the plug.

I’ll never forget how the school bells rung.

I’ll never forget the day he got convicted.

The Fourteenth Entry: The Confession.

She sat still as her mother paced back and forth in front of her. She was petrified. Was it another death call? Was it a failed course? Did she get fired? A new question ran through her mind every time her mother spun on her heels. She couldn’t read her expression. There was an overall air of sadness, with notes of relief and a dry aftertaste of regret. But, her body was veiled with fear. It reminded her of her own experience. It reminded her of the time she was confronted with the fact that she’d started smoking. She couldn’t stand the silence any longer.

“Mom, what is going on?”

“I don’t know how to tell you.”

“Just come out with it.”

“Honey, your sister is coming home.”

“Sister?! What sister?!?”

“You have a sister. We never told you because she got arrested before you were born. She’s been locked up for 17 years for first degree murder.”

“MURDER?! WHO DID SHE MURDER!?!?”

“Your brother.”

“What brother?!?!?”

“Exactly.”

Did she just say that?

The Thirteenth Entry: A Dialogue

What’s the matter?

Nothing.

That’s a lie.

Than why did you ask?

I was just hoping to be mature about this.

Mature? You don’t know the first thing about mature idiot!

There’s no need to raise your voice.

I’m not raising my voice.

Yes, you are.

Oh yeah!? How do you know, you can’t even hear me?

Than why am I responding to you?

If you can hear me then why can’t you look at me?

Because I’m afraid of what I will see.

You already know what you’ll see. You already know that you’ll only see yourself.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1cumHA5i_eeRnA3Zas2Iy3FYLGyK0K18c7NI0mHsm0gc/edit?usp=sharing

The Twelfth Entry: I Remember When.

I remember when we were children, we were taught that to be clean is to be pure. I guess I never was very good at acting my age. My mother can speak to that. But, I felt it necessary to push my limits. After all, how else would you find your breaking point? And so, I sat and suffered through my consequences. And when it was over, I would reflect on myself. Often times, when I gave up, I would fall into a dark depression that was deeper than the wells that held all my tears. It would hold me down and sit on my chest for weeks. And when it finally stood up for a stretch, I would feel nothing at all. This lasted many years and was so common with me, that one day I just set up shop. I would lay down with a blanket and breathing mask. I was ready for it to come back for me. It got to the point where when it would leave me, I would dream of the day that it came back to me. We became friends. It was the only thing that wanted me. The only thing that always came back to me. We became friends. I would sleep for 3 hours each night and then we’d spend the early morning hours together. I would wake up to talk to it about my dreams. We would find shadows on the walls at night and, eventually, I found peace in the ever changing masterpieces. The long days were shorter than ever. The beauty out shined the darkness. I made it into an outlet. I put my own masterpieces on the walls. I found peace in being a failure. I found peace in being miserable. I found peace in my depression. And that was the beginning of the end. When I was told to get help, I fought it. I fought it. Tooth and nail. I destroyed myself. And there, among the ashes...I found comfort. But, it never lasted. And to this day, I sometimes still miss the cycle of rage and passion. And failure.

The Eleventh Entry: An Alphabetical Confession.

As the sun sets and

Everyone clears out,

I stand still in the silence.

Offerings and condolences lay

Untouched by your soul

Better left alone.

Couldn’t you wait?

Don’t you love me?

“Forever” you said.

Gone are the days of

Healing circles,

Jumping castles and

Kite races.

Learning how to live again

Makes it even harder.

No one to call me,

Protect me or

Quiet my concerns.

Red eyes and

Shaking hands

Tear away at my borders and

Violate my boundaries.

We relent at the thought of

Xerox boxes stacked with

Your belongings, but in the end,

Zenon awaits us all.

The Tenth Entry: A 5 Sentence Life Story.

She danced through the first door into a land filled with laughter and walls crawling with memories. She tippy-toed through the second door as she heard the echoes of fallen curtain rods and a sea of impostors staring blankly into her sheltered heart. As she stumbled through the third door, her shadow screamed at her with tearful eyes and a red tongue that reflected her open wounds. After the fourth door closed, she crawled along the floor avoiding the thick black smoke and syringe needles all around. As she came upon the fifth door she stood up, closed her eyes, and waited for whatever was to come in the next phase.

The Eighth Entry: This Is Not A Love Poem.

I often hear about love

Before I hear about respect

I often hear about trust

Before they even take a breath

The words will roll smooth

Without hitting hard times

The promises will come tall

But they come stacked up on lies

Not one will come true

Or be put to the test

Not one will have a pause

Yet here come the rest

The way they make it work

Will result in them being no more

The actions that build them down

Will bring them down to the floor

Strength, support, safety alike

Never cease to be forgotten

Strength to be used in a fight

Support and safety remain unspoken

When the curtain of need falls

The stage will be empty of crew

When the strings pull back ‘love’

The crowd will be confused

No matter the words

No matter the rhyme

There is no doubt

Their love will not last the night

The Seventh Entry: Travelling.

Some people will never understand. They’ll never see it the way it’s supposed to be. Everyone is so wrapped up in the ocean’s greetings and the muted sun rays that go on forever. But that’s just it, they don’t go on forever. Nothing goes on forever. The sun will always set and some day, it won’t come back. Some day, everyone will wake up to the darkness and then, they will understand. Then, they will finally see it. The sand grazed cement will disappear from beneath their rubber flip flops, the cyan skies will fade to cinereous and the palm breeze will shift into a deep feverish gale. It always baffled her how people could believe in things like paradise, or heaven on earth. She didn’t even know if heaven existed at all, nevermind in a land so destined to be destroyed by its inhabitants. It was all so perplexing, so she asked her mother to close the blinds. Besides, the chemical rays of chemotherapy were beyond enough for her to understand where her fate would soon lie. She didn’t need a cynical seventeen year old to explain it to her. She stared at the clock. It was deceptively honest, and she could learn to appreciate that. It may have been silent, but to her, it spoke a thousand words. It sang ten thousand songs and recounted one hundred thousand memories. Eventually, the doctors came in and replaced her still mind with a rolling hospital bed. As she was cruised around the halls, they followed her. The clocks. With each roundabout of the wheels, a second went past her like a hurried stranger. With each turn of a corner, the minute would catch up to her just to say hello and than, ultimately, goodbye. The curdled medical carts would wave and the empty CT scan rooms would smile. And then, the last man standing. The grandfather clock that sat on the outskirts of the west wing. His carcass had begun to rot internally years ago, and yet they kept him around, just like her. His hands were like quill pens that recounted each passing patient and daunting diagnoses. His wood was that of a wilted book that kept track of all the fallen tears and fearful tantrums. He was the diary of lives gone by. Much like the life she never had to begin with.

The Sixth Entry: Terrorism

Terrorism: the unlawful use of violence and intimidation, especially against civilians, in the pursuit of political aims (dictionary.com). Ever since the attack on The World Trade Center in 2001, terrorism has been a major topic of discussion, especially in the political stratosphere. It has become the center of many presidential campaigns across the globe as many people in the world struggle to find the universal cure for hatred. It’s hard to believe that there was once a time when terrorism was not apart of the feature article on the front page of the weekly newspapers, email blasts and civilian forums. Recently, as in throughout the past decade, many people have given a face to terrorism. This face is often of a man dressed in a thobe or a women adorned in a niqab. So why is it that as of October 2017, there were 1153 people murdered in a mass shooting events in the Americas, 163 of the shooters were male; almost all of which, were caucasian? In my opinion, these events are reflective of the under analyzed society of young white men that have no tolerance for minority communities or their migration to ‘america soil’. It is very well known that a lot of these young men are strong advocates for white supremacy/white power. Many of them hold the ideals of an Aryan society. There have been multiple instances in which these men have self identified as white supremacists right before they commit these horrendous murders in cold blood. A great number of them, in more recent years, have taken to video logging or live streaming themselves while they commit these acts. As a result, common members of society deem them psychopaths, psychologists deem them narcissists, and politicians deem them mentally unstable. However, one thing they all have in common, is the lack of use of the term terrorist when labeling these young men.

Person of The Year

https://drive.google.com/open?id=1yXQV9rsRXm-C62irqbENDs8T3S81-jkTovDoV0vmT84

The Fifth Entry: The Hate Note.

Dear moron,

Why?

That’s all I want to know.

Dear moron,

Why did you do it?

Do you think it made you look cool?

Dear moron,

Why can’t you do it?

Why can’t you just get a life?

Dear moron,

What is it?

What is it you want from me?

Dear moron,

What about them?

Why can’t you go after the other girls?

Dear moron,

What did I do?

What did I ever do to you?

Dear moron,

Where is it?

Where is your obsessive little shrine?

Dear moron,

Where are they?

Are they all hanging out at your house?

Dear moron,

What have you done?

How did you persuade them to hate me?

Dear moron,

Why don’t you ever learn?

You will always be a loser.

Nothing you do to me will ever change that.

The Fourth Entry: A Collage of Words.

The redwing jumped from the forested nest he’d known since birth.

It was his last chance.

He was ready to float through the air

And grace the tree tops with his wings

In his few moments of free falling he thought of everything he’d learned.

The tips, the tricks, the trials and troubleshoots

Everything

Leading up to this moment.

And then,

It was time.

His wings flapped,

His webbed feet tucked,

And finally,

His body began to lift.

He had done it.

He had finally done it.

He was floating at last.

The feeling of freedom overcame him,

The methadone of the wind rushes past his feather,

And confidence pumped through his veins.

His mother called out to him

“Absolutely socko, my son”.

He could feel it.

He could feel her pride radiating past them both.

All of his defeated nights,

Were forgotten.

He needed not a cabotage to feel the clouds

He needed nothing

Other than his own will power and determination.

He knew his soaring would eventually come to an end

But until then,

He took in every countable moment

Of his first flight.

The Third Entry: Alternative Perspectives.

Mommy parked the car. She opened my door and asked me to undo my seat belt while she looked through her purse. I stood up from my seat, climbed out of her car and waited beside her until she was done. When she finished, she kneeled down in front of me and did up my coat. She looked at me for a long time before she made me promise not to misbehave in the doctor’s office. After I made the promise, she grabbed my hand and walked with me across the parking lot. When we got to the tall front door of a short building, Mommy pushed a button on a silver box and then waited. While we waited, she wiggled my hand and told me to smile more. And then, a loud buzzing came from the box and Mommy pulled the door open. I stayed behind her because the hallway was scary looking. The walls were all dirty and there were a lot of doors. Mommy and I walked into an elevator and went up to the 5th floor. I tried to ask her why we were here, but she just shushed me and kept looking at the door in front of us. She didn’t want to look at me anymore, she was mad at me. I didn’t do nothing wrong, but I guess she was just mad, again. She only looks at me when she’s happy. When the elevator stopped, we stepped out. The doctor’s door was already open. Mommy went into her purse and pulled out my DS and my headphones. She handed them to me and told me to start playing my Mario game. And then, she picked me up and we went into the doctor’s office. All the walls were white. There was a lamp that was shiny and bright. The light bulb in it was white too. The doctor walked in. She pushed a big tray into the office and then she smiled at me. Mommy sat me down on a chair and then she took off her jeans and put on a long blue dress. It looked like the one from The Paper Bag Princess. That was my favorite story. The doctor asked me what my name was and I told her it was Rosie, and then, she asked me how old I was. I was going to tell her I was six, but Mommy told her that we didn’t have all day to be there. Mommy was on a table now. I could tell she was going to start crying. I guess she was really mad at us. I just turned up the music from my game. The doctor turned all the lights off, except the lamp, and sat down by Mommy’s legs. I knew I wasn’t supposed to be looking, but I did anyway. She put on a pair of gloves and then reached over to her tray. I went back to playing my game for a little bit because I didn’t want to get in trouble. When I looked up again, the doctor had a really long pair of scissors. They weren’t like the ones at school. They were really sharp. I looked away. I played my game for a long time this time. I had almost won the round when the scissors shined in my eye. I looked at them, again. This time there was strawberry syrupy stuff all over the silver handles. I wanted to look away, but I was scared. The syrupy stuff was so red, and it started to get all over the tray and the doctor’s gloves. It reminded me of when we used to draw fire trucks on the whiteboard at school. I looked at Mommy, but she was just looking the floor. Her eyeballs were almost the colour of the syrup. She looked sad, so I stood up and put my hand on her arm. She almost smiled at me, but it was more like a frown. I was about to sit down, but she wiggled my hand again and told me to smile more.

The Second Entry: Third Person.

As she sat at her desk, and put her thoughts on the page in front of her, she thought of so many things. She thought of what it would be like to be a believer. What it would be like to believe in something, anything, beyond herself. Something that she could not rationalize. Something that she could not explain. She wanted to know what it felt like to wholeheartedly believe. She thought back to a memory. It was from a very old chapter of her life. It was so old that some of the edges were torn. The pages had turned so fragile and the ink had become so faint. The words had disappeared. This memory was dying like the little girl she used to be. It could barely breathe in the air between the drops of tears she cried. The tears of ink could hardly absorb fast enough, as she tried to rewrite it. This memory was one of a time when she believed. A memory from a time when she could understand the faith. The faith that her friends and family had. The same faith that she had, before she saw the imperfections. This memory was one of her life, before the world took every piece of her hope and turned it to stone. This memory was one of her life, before God died.

The First Entry: A Collection of Words.

a life of silence

began to burst

into a thousand and one pieces,

evaporated in an instance,

left nothing behind,

and everything

up to chance,

all at once.