Angry Poem

I hope you know
When you cast judgement
On someone else
You are saying nothing about that person
But you speak of yourself--
Your bitterness
Your hatred or jealousies
You shine a mirror when you speak such negativities
That have no basis
Except, in your opinion...

I know you know
Your judgement hurts.
Your poison seeps into the air
And into the ears of susceptible bodies with little egos
waiting to grow

A rose does not head the thorns you posess
They prickle my skin like the bare briar
They are as beautiful as barbed wire

Your high horse talk looks like
Weeds under a telephone pole or
Pollen-soaked rain or
Oil in a puddle.
And when these picturesque atrocities
spill from your rose-like mouth

You look like them, too.

Thinking of a friend with a heartache, I decided to post this

This poem is dated May 4, 2003. That would have made me fourteen years old, but heartache hurts no matter what age you are. I really enjoy my writing from this time.

Make it go away

Make it hide in the dust of the stairwell

Away from me, away from them,

The ones who care.

Who can love if it is only a word?

An idea, like the colors of sound,

Pulling at imagination and want.

That which is irresistible, but a wild stab

In your heart:

A beautiful fluttering of butterflies around me,

While locusts swarm in to destroy the golden wheat.

I've always had this obsession with water lipping over...

So the rain never stopped.
And suddenly it seemed to me that the flash flood that dropped
To a bubbly happy brook
was dried up and began anew with steadily rising water blue.
Not gray and angry like last time
Just a deep, unthinking blue, pitter-patter.
Didn’t matter.
I let it rise until again it came forth, but,
Now, you would think it dries—
No,
Just a bit lipped over,
So it rose further.
Drove her crazy, never ending.
No cathartic moments pending. Spending
Every minute waiting, fearful, angry, still
She’s hating those small drops fallen into that stagnant pond,
Once a river.
She’s wishing she could stop the drizzle,
Let it sit and die, a swamp.

Start the process over.

She sees it, what she wants to be:

A deep, gorgeous valley.
With flowers, lush grasses responding
To the brilliant sun
And animals on the run
And bees that skim over the clovers
Across something that once looked damaged
And never too well managed.
But now is firm and fertile and fair.
She envisions herself healthy, unaware.
Just calm and happy and green and plain.
Just drinking that water whenever it rains.
Soaking up life, however it comes.
Not submitting to any inner demons.
Letting the wind blow her hair in her face,
Not trying to know, just knowing her place.