.a sign reads:idle hands wanted
Mama's EyesShe said to her daughter,"Goodnight."And her little girlNo longer littleLooked up in her mama's eyes,And said,"Goodbye."And Mama thought nothing of it,Till her little girlNo longer littleNever looked up in her mama's eyesAgain.
i was doing so well at this happy thing.from age fiveto twelve, it was the constant voices (at homeand in my head) telling me that i wasfat. and then for 3 yearsi was nothing.i was the child that dyed her hair andtold her dad thatshe didn't want to get marriedbecause it was alltoo much.for 3 years,i was the girl whowrote stories and folded them up inpaper cranesto hang above my bed. now,at 16 years old,my dad tells methat i'm too thin. i don't eat enough.and i know that it's nottrue. i eatwhat my body needs. and i had finally gottento the spot where i felt comfortable. no-- fuck, i felt good.but nowwhen i look in the mirrorall i see is my dadtelling me that i am a mess(even though he never said it) and that when he was my age,he didn't have anxiety attacks and my brothermay be a fuck up butat least he'smentally capable (sort of).no matter what,my dadwill always be betterand so will myalmost-dropout br
.how to comfort someonewith an anxiety disorder: tell them to grow up.god knowsthat they only panic because they're just not old enoughto handle themselves. say that it's notthat bad.because, hey,since it's not bad for you,it can't be for them. that's just how it works,right?"calm down".this oneis my personal favorite.because the one thingthat i want to hearwhen i'm choking on my own sweatand heartis that i need to calm down.
,i used to part my hair down the middle,but then i stoppedwhen i was twelvebecause innocencewas heavy,or something likethat.besides,we all have to grow up,don't we?
.my head isthe apple and youare the worm;watch mesquirm
this is not a goodbyeI have nothing left to do here--no one to listen to,and nobody with an open ear,to hear me whispermorals and poems forgotten,taken by the petitioners,hell,they took everything;took even my empty shell,and sure I lamented:I cursed greedy hands:the hands that wantedmore than their cross,the one that my children carry,but it's a loss,all of it.So I leave now,all of the pieces and bits,nothing left on meexcept the clothes on my back,but not eyes for me to see,see the changes the world bringsand beside the damned society,you can hear bells ringbut only after you pay the fareto get into heaven.(I'm not sure if you were awarebut heaven's toll booth prices riselike the amount of the dead)I have no advice,as I mentioned earlier,there was no one listening anyways--nobody friendlierthan the big man up there himself;who still won't lower those prices.I'll leave you by yourselfto figure outwhere you stand in this world;a world full of doubt,sure,but yo
...But Even At My Best...In my existence,Many said that I would failAnd it bothered me.I displayed my skillsAnd gave the crowd some cold chillsBut it proved a loss.A few years agoI entered a spelling beeAnd misspelled word one.Future, I believeIt was, and I spelled it wrongAnd it destroyed me.I knew that I wasBetter than that, but no oneReally fathomed that.People bullied meIn middle school, and it allBut made me wonder.What did I do toDeserve this cruel, twisted, andUnderhanded fate?No matter the answer,I still see in the mirrorA man at his best.I see the futureIn a bright light, but with strongPessimism comesThe realizationThat my dreams may never makeIt to the real world.When I leave this Earth,I want people to know thatI'm as good as oneWho would give his lifeTo protect the ones he sawNear and dear to him.When I'm dead and goneI want the generationsTo know I was best.Best in true effort,Best in perseverance, andBest in being kind.But that may not be.That may