Zealot

Cutting out your heart

for a symbol

instead of the people

it stands for

is being a part

of their group suicide.

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People Watching #2

I did what I said I was going to do and went out to people-doodle. I was feeling really self-conscious though, so I feel like these kind of suck. It felt good to sit in a public place alone, but was also really anxiety causing. I was exhausted when I got home! But I live conveniently right next door to a big mall, so I have no reason to let myself lose the habit again. I think this actually might be therapeutic for my Asperger’s anxiety and shut-in tendencies.

I caught three people catching me in the act, though probably more saw what I was doing. I used to do this all the time back in University, but on a college campus, especially one in Portland, Oregon, its not weird for people to be drawing each other. I felt like a huge pretentious hipster doing it in the mall, but I don’t care! I just forced myself to do it! One lady was nice and just gave me a smile. A young lady caught me drawing her friend and nudged her to have her look. An old man watched me as I drew his wife, but didn’t do anything. It was all rather amusing.

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My Old Friend It

I have an imaginary friend…
I call her It. A stupid name
given a long time ago
by a girl being emo.
She’s a reflection of myself
but with dead eyes and white hair
and a stupid sneer
a thing that lives in my old bedroom
she lived in my sanctuary
right next to my soul
she whispered to me at night
she kept me awake, tormented me
she gave me sharp tools,
told me to use them
I couldn’t say no to her.
They made things feel better
but I didn’t want it that way.
She was a constant torment
fighting me, trapping me,
holding me down, hurting me
holding paper cutters to my face
I don’t see her much anymore,
but sometimes she surprises me
shows up scratching at my window
Feeling her watching, keeping her out
is just as painful as the blades.
I don’t want to kill myself
I just wish I didn’t exist
but It shows up sometimes
to remind me it’s the same thing.
She’s around less often,
she still lives at that old room
but she likes to visit.
It’s hard to shut the door
in the face of such a longtime friend.
Even with her poor methods
she was still the only one
who wanted to comfort me.

Glass Traps

Rewrite of a poem I wrote in 2009

Oh, I am losing my mind
over this silliness
what exactly do I expect to find?
my heart cries. but I know a trap.

What did I expect to find?
a gem on the sidewalk
but I cut my hand on glass
why did it end up like that?

I only cut my hand on glass
I pine and urge
grab too quickly
I never learn to stop and ask.

Is it just another piece of glass?
my heart sets traps
I panic. I worry
an unnecessary stress.

I pine and urge. Too easily
my heart just keeps setting traps
when has it ever worked out?
all gems are made of glass.

People they panic. They worry
why do they act like that?
Is this a curse we all live with?
or is it just poor luck.

Why do they act like that?
with their heart on their sleeve
they compete, then complain
they just want to be entertained.

With hearts on our sleeves
we put ourselves into fire
and don’t know why we burn
when will we learn?

How did it get like this?
Stumbling down streets
like toddlers. we don’t learn
to watch our feet for traps.

If people stopped competing
complaining and setting traps
we’d find gems on the sidewalk
instead of getting cut by glass.

 

 

Lifey Bit #6: Flower Picking

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I’ve decided to just do one Lifey Bit at a time now, that way I can share more, and more often, and not worry over which ones to share so much.


 

I took the bike path to the train station, away from the psychotic drivers coming off the freeway and in the Town Center parking lot. It’s the long way to the station, but it is also the “scenic route” for pedestrians, as “scenic” as an urban setting can be.

The sun was shining, making the cement path bright, except for the one small tunnel the overpass creates, which was dark like a cave. On the right, the path is lined with crabgrass, pink and white wildflowers, and what I think is wild indigo. The sun glows off the yellow brush. The world is a white-yellow wash of ink with dabs of purple. Every time I pass, I wonder why pretty purple flowers would grow in such a litter and cement riddled wasteland, but I really just don’t know anything about flowers.

Once I went through the tunnel and emerged on the other side, I saw a young man. A little bit younger than me, perhaps. Tall and skinny, wearing a heavy tan coat despite the sunny day, and a backwards ballcap. He had just stopped and was looking around to see if there were any other people on the path, just missing me emerge. Seeing no one else, he went into the brush, bent down, and began digging at the flowers there. He picked the pink and white wildflowers, no care for the wild indigo.

I had stumbled upon a deer in a glen! Its head down in the grass, about to snap alert in fear at the sound of my movement! I wanted to watch, take careful steps toward him, take a picture. I was mesmerized.

When he noticed me walking toward him, he didn’t snap alert. He barely glanced my way but his hands lurched a little. He seemed to sag. His fingers took on a slow, clumsy movement, just touching the flowers absently. He was embarrassed, but stopping would prove it. The last person a young man wants to catch him in the act would be a young woman. I wanted to smile at him as I walked by, somehow show him I was endeared, but he didn’t look at my face. Saying anything would have made it worse. I just continued on to the train station.

What is he doing with those flowers now…?

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