I dug up an old one since I’ve missed weeks of the poetry train. I always meant to go back and redo this one. I still might. It’s completely disjointed, lacking in style, but I think there’s something salvageable.
This monster poured out in one rough go after… er, a period of intense anger… 😉
Big, Freaking Windows
We are, each of us,
Alone in our own skins,
Wearing designs not of our own.
This face came with the package.
Took me years to grow into it
And sometimes, I’m still not so sure.
Inside, on the other hand
I’m still growing.
I’m like most anyone else
Who hasn’t shoved themselves
Into a certain type of box.
You know the one.
In that box, you don’t ask questions.
As a child, I thought it a stupid rule.
I asked questions.
Some that got my face slapped
By extreme fundamental relatives
Who use their hands for violence,
Instead of their mouths for a kind answer.
Their faith existed in a dark place.
Harsh and unrelenting,
It left no room for growth.
I would sit alone in their midst
That a closed mind is like a disease.
It turns people into walking, empty husks,
Light and vision sucked dry,
With black hole mouths- always open
For that daily spoon feeding of
Death and damnation.
To me, it seemed they
Worshiped the word, should.
It’s a four letter word.
Such power it has.
Taking life on the end of a pointing finger,
Becoming a solid mass that
Forms into a four-cornered square.
An airtight box with triple strength, super-glued sides
And no windows.
They would mill inside their colorless boxes,
Their conversations never changing.
“The end of times is near!”
This is true, I was constantly assured,
By the microchips, you see
That are implanted in our bodies…
By the government…
I’m not so popular in that part of the
I think it’s because I wondered aloud
That perhaps there’s more spirit
In one act of simple human kindness,
Than in a lifetime of following rules.
Of not ever cutting one’s hair,
Never wearing makeup,
Or gasp, a woman in a pair of pants?
I thought that maybe all that energy
Adhering to these rules made one
To what should be beautiful,
And perfectly clear.
That is, if you’re reasonable.
Mostly, I think I wasn’t too popular
Because of my box.
My box with its vibrant colorful skin.
My box with its windows.
Big, freaking floor to ceiling windows.
The kind you can see through,
Walk through if you like.
For in my box,
My windows even have latches.
For much better poetry today, take a ride on Rhian’s Monday Poetry Train. <g>