I’m starting poems again,
Not finishing them, of course.
I’ve begun again
To build a scattered pile
Of pieces
Of stolen time
And broken thoughts:
Sheets of paper
Parts of an un-gathered
Of my unspoken words
Bravely protruding themselves
Into the world.

I have begun to return
To what is normal to me,
What my life was
Before formal education
Robbed me
Of my time,
Of the ability
To think
At leasure
Instead of on command
With the ever present,
Always impending deadline.

I am starting again
My abandoned relationship
With my words, ideas
And inner self,
Making themselves known
By pouring forth
On paper,
Forming their shape
With ink.


Drive a stake through my nakedness
And then tell me to put clothes on,
Because the shape of my body
Isn’t appealing to you.

Thrust swords into my heart
And make me really feel it,
Because your words
Were never sharp enough.

Break that mirror I keep staring into
And run a shard through my eyes.
Let me cry tears of blood
For a change,
Because something has to.

Free writing. Not really free since the community of words that exist inside my being never all make it out alive. I think, then I have a desire to speak, I go about speaking what is on my mind, but my mind never stops. It doesn’t wait for my hands, or pen and paper, or the keys on a keyboard, for a webpage to load. It just keeps going. And so my original thought is lost in a stampede of thoughts that were never there before and I am surprised at how suddenly they came about and how quickly they rushed forward; how they were able to overtake the one that started it all. The one that started it all… God… Me… Not me. Not that way. That’s another thing. My mind sometimes goes places I don’t want it to. And I don’t understand this. Since it is a part of me, how can it not be aware of the places that I don’t want to visit, that I don’t want to remember? Why does it constantly stumble upon, or run towards, places, corners, and alleys that I’m scared of, that hurt me before, that I don’t want to be reminded of? Why does it not understand that I need time, a lot of time, to recover from what happened there, and there; from all the things that happened in all those places? See sometimes it likes to pretend it’s a psychologist. Those darned movies. Where else would it get all those ideas from? Oh what happened in your childhood? It all goes back to there. How was your relationship with your father? Your mother? Were you a happy child? Did anything happen in your childhood that may have caused your like or dislike for this particular thing? Crap crap crap blah blah blah and it goes on. One time I caught it analyzing me in the bathroom at church. In the bathroom! I shook my head, snapped out of it, and went inside. Why does it do that? I hate when it’s right before bed. I need to sleep, but it wants to ask questions about the future and the present and how I feel. No. I want to sleep. I need to wake up tomorrow. Wish to God that was optional. It’s most alive in my bedroom. No one bothers it there, that’s probably why. It’s big and proud, though I don’t know why. It’s not like it has a degree in anything. It only knows whatever it knows because of all those movies it watched as I was growing up. What did you see when you were little? You must have seen something to make you do this now. I did see something, but I wasn’t that little. It was so long ago anyway. But I have heard stories of people and long ago, and now. They couldn’t have all been lies. Maybe my long ago does have something to do with my now. But it was so long ago. … I just glanced at the time twice after trying hard not to. I’m supposed to do this for twenty minutes; free writing. Not sure how free this is though since I’ve been on that backspace key like yellow on mac and cheese. I like that simile there. I was going to use white on rice first but that’s kind of old. I think I made this one up but I may have heard it somewhere before. There are things like that. Things you aren’t sure if they came from you or if you just heard or saw them somewhere before but forgot when and where. Things like that. I looked again. Time’s almost up. I’m like this with time. I always check to see when it will run out. Wouldn’t it be cool if we could do that with our lives? Check to see when it would end so we could do what we wanted to before then? I think that would be nice. I have a bucket list but I’m not sure I’ll ever do anything that’s on it. It would be nice if I was able to do just one. Only one. That would be really nice. Really nice. Timer go off already! I have less than two minutes. Why does time always go slowly when you’re waiting for it. It’s like a woman getting dressed – or so I hear. I can get dressed in two or three minutes if I already know what I’m wearing. Shopping. Yeah that’s it. It’s like a woman who’s shopping. Takes forever. Last few seconds and I’m listening to The Script. I like them. Oh! Time’s up. It was nice talking to you. :)     P.S. Is this free writing if it was edited? I proofread it and corrected a few things.

And these are the times I hate them. And I wonder if I would be like this if I was still a “Christian”. Maybe my beliefs would make me forgive them, or the devil in them, and show them the light of Jesus in me. But was it ever there? I hate them! I hate myself! Why the hell do people’s words always affect me? Why couldn’t I be like those people who don’t care and don’t let anything get to them? Even if I don’t want to, I react to people. I hurt when they speak to me. And I just wish to God I was somewhere else and not here.

A Boy in a Hat

I’ve fallen in love
with a boy I don’t know,
who wears a hat,
and writes poetry.

He makes me smile
with the words he writes
and I do believe
he knows who I am.

Already I have seen
letters written to me,
and felt subtle somethings
somewhere in my thorax.

Sure it may be
that I ran hard
to catch the bus today
and I may be feeling
pain from that,

But I want
to believe that
a boy in a hat
has touched me
with his mind.

I don’t believe
some of the words
people allow
to escape their mouths.

Like love,
and colour.

I don’t understand
what would lead a person
to just say whatever
it is he or she wants to
without considering
its effects
on the ears it will fall upon.

I never say
certain things
in certain situations
unless I am directly asked
to do so, because I know
that someone might be hurt
or offended by what I will say.

How can other people
speak so carelessly?

Even when I am
bursting at the seems,
and my body actually aches
because of all the things
I am holding inside me.
Even when I am
about to fall apart,
I never speak like that.

How is it that
someone else can do that?