Poetry

Depression

It is a strange world to exist in
And I could not replicate it if I tried
The fog, the haze, the unmistakable maze
The pied piper that promises lies

A tune here, a whistle there
A tongue twister comprised of bile
A jitter, a bug, a half-milled slug
Why must it be so vile?

There are very few things that interest me
A knee, a tree, a bee
But it is these things which will destroy me
And take me away in glee

Both knees shall be broken into two
No valley shall I pass through
A bee shall no longer buzz and sting
There, you see, I’ve lost my wings

And the tree, what a wonderful tree
Completely full of life is she
But with my hands, myself, my child
Maliciously I will snap it flat and hear it crack

And in such conditions
I will flee

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Soldiers

I never fully understood why there were men who were homeless on the street that had fought in wars. I didn’t understand it because I thought “these people are probably more skilled than I am. They should be able to get a job.” As a child walking by, I would dig into my pockets and give them everything I had. Granted, I only had pennies. Very little. But I had figured, as a child, that giving them my little everything was much better than giving them absolutely nothing. And I had understood that I didn’t really need sweets from a shop. If I really wanted something, I could always get it another day.

But yeah, I never really understood why these ex-soldiers could never get a job. I almost still don’t understand it. Though, I do want to and I definitely try to.

And I figure, it may be because of all the trauma they have been through. I can hardly keep going with the childhood trauma that weighs heavily on my mind from time to time. Just imagining all the events that they may have witnessed makes me understand why. Because they were able to understand the difference between right and wrong. There was no confusion. And things like that, effect grown-ups more than they do children, in my opinion.

But I still can’t completely understand it. It can’t be just because of trauma, can it? Or maybe it can? Maybe it’s the lack of skills? Maybe it’s the hard job market out there? But like I said, they seem skilled to me. But I could possibly type it into google and find out. But meh, these are just thoughts which are bouncing deep in my head upon waking from a dream about the military and torture and blah, blah, blah.

I notice that this may be coming off insensitive and I generally hate being insensitive. But I do wonder, sometimes. Because if I knew fully what it was, maybe I could help them. Because they’re really nice people. Well, the guy I talked to anyway. The guy on the street, that was an ex-soldier, which had fought in a war, was a passionate speaker. About what, you ask? I’m not sure anymore. I was a kid and my mother would always shoo me along once I stopped. But he seemed very friendly, very well driven. That’s why I find it unfair he could never find a job. Because he’s seemed amazing. And someone told me while interviewing for a gliding scholarship, that sometimes sheer passion can be an appropriate substitute for experience.

Hm, I should also probably mention I started reading Slaughterhouse-Five as well. Just to give a little bit more context to my spiralling thoughts about war and soldiers.

At the end of the day, they should be helped. By who? By everyone. Any little will help. Any type of change which will benefit them and can, sometimes, be enough.

I’m not very good at ending these things but yeah…

Nakedstreetkid out! 🙂 x

Poetry

I shouldn’t be here

I’m just a kid again
The shame of walking to school with my brother’s clothes on engulfs me
Eats me whole

The soles of my feet grabs the gravel at the pavement
My shoes are vacuums
Split at the sides, circles dug deep
I pull one foot in front of the other

And as I slither into school their whispers consume me
Their stares paralyse me
Constricting my throat
No word escape my mouth
But grieving sounds of solitude do

The world disappears in my mind
A hazy fog of bricks floating above ground
Expressions dislocated from faces
Experimenting with a frown and then a laughter
That suddenly clicks into anger

Shouting cuts away at my fog
And I begin to move

Slowly, slowly, slowly forward

A breath escapes through my nose
My eyes shimmer close
When I open them, I’m at the the steps

I’m ready and first in line
I’m first in line and watch them
Playing tag and jumping on the fence

While I sit on the step

While I sit on the step

I’m first in line people

I’m first to die