Thursday, August 26, 2010

untitled 8-26

in my weeping willow down the street
the branches hung longer than Rapunzel's hair.
I wasn't aware that by the channel
Mitchell could be such a rebel,
and no amount of begging please
could save the life of those poor bees.
Buzzing bees, angry jackets
yellow flying at my waiting head.

Mitchell usually meant pain
after the age of thirteen.
Too cool for me was he
then, a middle school man.
Bright, bustling age of eleven,
and I'm in search of a new best friend.
Moving on to half past thirteen
and Mitchell's there to hold me, sobbing.
I did a lot of sobbing.

Over broken bones,
or broken hearted,
I cried more tears
than Mitchell spotted.

But when he did,
and this was sure,
a helping hand
was always there.

Even Keel

I'm on an even keel,
I think it's just the drugs.
SSRI and stabilized.
Bipolar? down to zero.

What am I without the label?
Who am I on the drugs?
What is it to be different
while just striving for the same?

So I'm stable, so I'm sane.
So I'm crazy, and I'm ill.
Well, I'm tired and I'm bored,
and I'm ready for the world.

While I'm sitting in this class
and I listen to him speak
I can't help but to notice
no one really gives a damn.