November 28, 2011
By JesseT GOLD, Oshkosh, Wisconsin
JesseT GOLD, Oshkosh, Wisconsin
10 articles 0 photos 2 comments

Looking back,
my life passed not in leaps and bounds
or hops and skips,
but more like trips in
class periods spend fidgeting and chewing
the skin off my lips.
With dull pencils I wrote myself into corners
where I felt more at home.
With the dust bunnies
and the newspaper funnies
I was a little less alone.

Since then, I’ve seen
most of you are poor
either in money or mind.
A poverty rapes you,
It’s a matter of whether or not you let it bind.
Either way, you still find thrill as you fill
your hole-marred chests with
and merchandise
as if your worth is measured
in items gathered
in this short human life.

I’m only the observer.

I am not above such illness.
I am only the observer.
I still feel the sickness fill us.
As the masses pass
bathed in negativities, crass.
A mist, an acidic storm.
Your worry wounds my ears
and makes my brain swarm
with your
is mine tonight.

Your tears drop like words
to fill my selfish page.
Tonight, I sit spilling words of you and your
sad eyes,
of you and your busy strides
through acidic storms
on city streets
as my mind still swarms
to the beat of your feet.
It seems your struggle fuels my hobby.
Tonight, I write of your tears
as the girl on the bus.
Hidden in eyes made up
when you feel ugly inside.
You’re convinced maybe you’re dying inside
When really there’s a baby lying inside
as worlds flit by outside
past the frosted window you sit beside.

Tonight I write of the shiver in your skin
brought by cold winter winds
as they sting
and you sing
to the boy who is to break your heart
and clip your wings.

I write of you
Of your sleeves pulled long
Though your whispered words feel strong,
I know your throat and the lump within tonight.
Relief is sharp
And cold
And thin tonight.
As it breaks your skin tonight
From skin pulled tight tonight
Have you lost your will to fight tonight?
It’s not right!
But still I write.

These are my words wrung
from your hearts
blood on the breath of this beast.
They are the acidic mist I singe my soul with and
The fire I find works well to fight the nightly cold with
You writhe,
ravaging the bowels of my mind
with your sap-sopped sorrows and sins.
tonight, from the corners of my eyes, they leak
and they seep
into puddles on my pillow
and steal my sleep.

I write tonight
For the speechless to speak.
My plight to God:
your soul to keep.
Tonight, I write
for you.

The author's comments:
This is spoken word piece about my world around me and how it effects me.

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