one flew over the cuckoos nest In here I don't feel crazyI can'tHow can you?Everyone here is just as crazy, or worse.I miss the feeling of my wrist thoughThe place where the medical bracelet covers my skinMy wrist, two sizes too smallSeems to have disappearedAnd it's only day oneWhich makes me ponder, how crazy will I be by day ten?They ask me what my problem isAnd after I ramble off my listA thick fog of silence passes around the groupAnd with a cracked crooked tooth smile, the man beside me ask"But what's your problem?"I laugh, and for a moment, I feel normal,And safeAnd adequateInside this cuckoo clock
my aunt My aunt stuffs her prayers into the slot machines of Atlantic City more then I've ever seen her stuff a basket,In any church,I stand patiently on the sidelines,Praying to my own god,Hoping she hit's the jackpot soon,So I can go home and sleep,Her frantic hopes tire me,And weigh me down with pityAnd before the words can escape the grooves of my brainShe's moved on to the next machineLike the rest of the older people hereShe wants to hit it hardWants to hit it bigWants to hit somethingHit anything…Wants to be happy dammit!Because it's been far too long,And she's getting just a bit too oldAnd no satisfact
hospital tale So there I was in this nature safe, supremely sanitized, neutral colored, ass shaped plastic chair staring down at his bleached white 100% cotton sheets. When I get this sudden urge to look up. I could have sworn, no I swear I saw him staring straight at me, judging me. The man’s half dead and still I get that look. I guess I’ll never cut a break with this family. He’s not speaking to any of us, again, because his family, my father’s sisters, like to whisper ugly things in his ears while he sleeps as if we haven’t done anything but try to support all of them, as if my father really deserves to watch his
white girl White GirlMrs. SmithUnless we make something of our potentialsThey do not really exist. -Rachel Pollack You’re not a train wreck… You’re more like a car wreck… It could always be worse though, You could be a plane wreck, And how many people actually live through those? -Mr. SmithTo my parents
white girl intro IntroductionFor some strange reason I’ve always wanted to sit down and write a story about my life. Amusingly, I’ve always considered autobiographies a form of literary vanity, but… here I am. Yes, I’ve been through a lot, I’ve meet some extraordinary people, and have had a plethora of experiences, but this alone does not give me an advantage over any other person and their own story. The main reason for wanting to get it all down is to reach out to people…all sorts of people. People struggling with race, divorce, mental health, a rape, drugs, alcohol, parents, abusive boyfriends, military, miscarriages, whate
prologue or kindergarten I am four or five, and a ladybug in the girl scouts.My mother is our troop leader, there are only five of us.We live on an American base in Germany.I don’t think there are even any other troops.Most of the time my mother reads from a huge binder with all the projects and right things to say in it.I think she is a little lost.I’ve found pictures of her before she had me.She doesn’t look like the ladybug troop type.My mother wanted a way for me to be productive, though, and a way for her to stop thinking about my father in the war, so she does this. She teaches us how to make turkeys out of our cut out handprin
may 09,07 lovely girl kiss mewhisper sweet nothingsteach me what it means to belovely girl want meplease don't taunt megive up your body with easelovely girl pleaseshow me you need medress yourself with ribbons and bowslovely girl love meput noone above megive me your heartlend me your soullovely girl hate mebend me and breakchew up the best part of meaddicted like candybut your love's still dandyand i know you must know, there's no better then me_d.m_
god is a con artist i should have said more,with timid steps, and quiet eyesjust whisper, can i stay?i find a little persitence would have gotten me farfurther then this momentfurther then luckless luck and a con of godand those wordsthat you said three tiny wordsthat mean nothing alone and everything when delicately sewn togetherand this, this isn't very good is it?but tell me how simply should i put it?in leaps and bound my heart exploded in my chest,and i found myself in piecesbut i would take pieces over obligation any daywhy now? when all along you knew and i waited and was patient,so as not to interupt the perfect blance of
death of his future i imagined a world for my sonmore beautiful then i could have possibly created within the limitations of nine months.a world where it won't matter what colors he happens to beonly if his voice rings truea world where no one will ask him what race he is, then say really? oh....simply because it wouldn't matter at allonly that he did the right things when the right things needed to be done.sirens sound in the distance and fear reverberates through my body echoing up and down my small town like a hurricane. i can almost hear the screaming, the bombing,the tell tale signs of ringing in your ears as the cells begin to dieand
night smoke It’s rainingYes, I know it isI feel the wet bench beneath my skin sighing at the weight of my woesYes I can see the raindrops falling all around me…I am “enlightened”‘God’s pissin’ on us’ I hear my mother say in the back of my headYea, mommy…he isPissin’ or cryin’ either way his waist is pouring down on usThe filter to my cigarette breaks off and I smoke the tobacco straightI’m gonna’ die and I don’t even smoke…The warmth of the smoke filling my mouth and lungs warms what little bit of room I have left inside me.I need this right nowVictor’
Sta.sh
