Dear Mr. Bumblebee,
When I was a child, you were my friend.
A fat little oval drawn floating past in my puffy-clouded, sun-in-the-corner-of-the-page blue sky, drawing you was a pleasure, with your dotted-line curving trail following lazily behind you.
Commitment is not a good intention. It is a job, a duty. And it is just that, a duty of mine, to take care of this matter.
Children carve their sculptures in powdery brown dirt, pails of water supplementing dirty hands and stained white dresses. When playtime is over all that is left is a clump of mud and dirty clothes.
No matter how many difficulties we face, there will always be a thin glow in the distance, a tiny lantern flashing morse code that drives us forward.
Destiny’s call is neither faint nor ear-splitting.
Its song is sung in its lovely soprano
drawing you in just as a siren call
but danger is not so eminent.
The room was lacking so many essential items, all things stripped from it until white, clean, even bone marrow was left. No bed, no carpet, no paint, no fixtures. Nothing.
I have a wealth
of things and people
that I do not know,
but our hearts still beat in time
and we still kneel down
with thoughts of each other bubbling
in our brains
and we still sing meaningless jumbles
that we call songs
to each other.
Taking a stand isn’t nearly as easy as it sounds. Facing your peers is the single most frightening experience I could ever go through, and it isn’t as rewarding as they say in the movies.
A million butterflies
in my chest,
begging to be let free
the cage opening
float into the endless blue sky.
I always like to put a little bit of bounce into my stride, even if I feel like flopping onto the couch with a half-empty bag of potato chips with Full House playing in the background.
I heard the book Monster was good once. I’ve heard that it’s about an innocent boy on trial for murder, and the entire book is dialogue from court proceedings. We had to choose a book in school and most kids chose Monster because they thought it was short.
The depth of my mind is only that of the shallow puddle that forms in a pothole after a night of endless rain, though I act as though I’ve dug my own sea.
Roller coaster in my mind spinning, catapulting, racing forward with insane thoughts that twist me into a pretzel of deep pain, but not physical. The kind that never ceases to rattle my bones.
Sometimes I feel chained to my reputation, who everyone has pinned me down as. I’m trapped, forced into a fate that I don’t want and to a stereotype I do not deserve.
Regardless of the temperature outside,
all I wish is to put on my white dress
and dance amongst the flowers.
That’s what they do in movies,
so why can’t I join in?
If I were president, I definitely wouldn’t waste millions of dollars like a certain person. But eh, I can’t help what’s happening. I’m young and can’t vote yet.
Industries chug along,
clunking, cranking, polluting
our lives with mass-produced
toys, clothes, warmth,
and all on sale.
My hands become
blocks of ice
when I can feel these things near,
I just wish
to get out of the freezer.
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