The world around me is alive, but I'm not; not really.
I'm just here. Standing; sticking to myself with my exterior armor in all it's graffitied glory.
Do I seem alive to you? Do I seem alive because my exterior is covered in the remnants of their colorful paint?
Wait... Is that life? Is that all it is? Do I really exist just to reflect the beauty of others? Is it that why they grow so attached to me, because I listen to them, because I let them express themselves freely? What an awful thought, but a thought that might prove to be valid.
"Sorry, I'm still listening; please don't be mad..." These thoughts just pop into my head. I can't control them, not yet.
I'm sorry if you feel like you're talking to a brick wall, but I guess in a way you are.
I might have a vibrantly colored surface, but beyond all that artificial there's just dirt. Dirt, that was soaked in overflowing emotions, that was packed and molded by life experiences that no child should have to endure; dirt that was left out to dry, and finally did.
The past is the past; I've picked up my pieces since then and cemented them together. My pieces are my armor, and you're seeing whats left it. I'm sorry I don't have the ability to revert back, but you can paint my exterior if you'd like; others have without my permission simply for their own amusement. I'm used to it.
You seem different though...
Are you different?...
I hope so, but then again I'm just a brick wall. What do I know?
About the Creator
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Bahama Mamma
Wake up; She’s home. You know what to do. Act as if it isn’t three o’clock in the morning, act as if you don’t have school tomorrow, act as if you are fine cause you know if you don’t it will just make everything worse. Face away from the door so if in a drunken rage She decides to come barging in She doesn’t see how much of a mess you are because despite how much you tell yourself not to, you are letting your emotions out. Pretend you don’t want to go out there and tell Her what you think. Pretend this isn’t exactly like Her. Pretend this isn’t your life because you can no longer pretend this is all somehow normal. Pretend you haven’t raised your siblings because your “parents” either walked out or turned to drugs and alcohol. Yes, pretend until you feel better, but do not forget your reality. Remember your place. Remember She is the “adult”, not you. Remember that She will always pull the “At least I’m here” card. Remember how She manipulates the love you have for Her. Remember to ignore the word of an alcoholic with a hangover because it is not good. Ignore the crashing of pots and pans and glass cups hitting the floor, ignore the screaming, ignore the thunderous laughter, ignore the presence of yet another stranger’s voice, ignore the never-ending sobs, ignore the monstrous thuds of drunken feet. Ignore all of that, but listen for footsteps coming from your closet, and wait for it to open. Listen for your little brother’s hushed voice asking for the third night to sleep in your room. Remind him to shut the door the special way so it doesn’t make noise; move your pillow over and let him have the other half of your queen-size. Assure him that she has passed out even though you are unsure if she has passed out or has passed on from alcohol poisoning. Wait for him to fall asleep. You don’t sleep. You see the light of day, and you continue to wait, wait for the clock to reach seven-thirty. Wake your brother for school, remind him to be silent as he gets ready. Go take note of the damages and find the safest and quietest route to the front door. Do not look in Her room; you’ll just be disappointed. Just listen for Her to stir. All clear. Tell your brother to walk to school, tell him you are not going because you have to take care of things, tell him not to come home after school, but instead go to Nana’s. Tell him you love him and that you’ll see him after school. Send him off. Call Nana; tell her everything, even the violent stuff, tell her that you and your brother can’t stay with Her anymore. Hold your breath in case Nana doesn’t understand, and let that breathe fall to the floor when Nana tells you Papal is coming to get you. Turn off the lights, and just before you leave whisper a parting “I love you” because after all, She is still your mother.
By Marisa Shrock5 years ago in Poets
Lifting the Curtain to a Successful Month
April has been a fantastic month for me in terms of writing endeavors. I’d like to share what’s been so great about it just as many other writers would do. Share successes. I’ve noticed other writers or artists have shared successes and when you just see the snippet of their success, it appears everything has been going right for them all along. But we haven’t seen behind the curtain, we haven’t seen their hard work and their failures and those months that were fraught with disappointment. In everyone’s case, it’s far from the truth. But for the outside observer it isn’t always apparent.
By Stephen Kramer Avitabile5 days ago in Writers
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