they call us the challenged kids.
with defeater eyes and hearts on guard
avoiding slang and slurs
as an utterance would curse them too
they call us the challenged kids.
my head in the dirt
white plank around
(fuzzy
not chipped
painted, new in the sun)
decrepit boards
nailed through ups and downs
(yet
still open
used to be-
rooms of light)
in my grave with my
head in the dirt
or out of it: does it matter in this hazy field
overgrown memories where they never tamed confederate jasmine on a circular drive.
bleary eyes wont bring back missed keyholes
look-throughs into ice glass
rooms where wood never rots
where decay can never touch
yet the rats and maggots seemed to swarm elsewhere.
they called me a challenged kid.
the soil and pebbles at my neck should brand me a hanged man
at least,
at the very least, irritate my soul.
my sea binds should have been stretched thin
god forgive i love my orchids
my garden trellises, my lovely forests
until
they let that heart drop from slimy planks, algae decks
to that cold; mist in the distance.
blue eyes can't feel the past
(wish mine weren't so green)
though its never been certain
gold, hazel or
even greyish
steel.
how identity rules itself.
blue eyes can't see through wave-breaks
breaching boats or
what they've devoted their loose life to.
was i a challenged kid?
i was maybe
the guitar strings that snapped whiplash on my back
the green hills turned dreams in morning humidity
the bronze glass, metal substitute, for words and feelings
but i was no analogy, euphemism of life.
didn't want to be another statistic
staring up at white oak doors.
another challenged kid,
sent to a school of thought.
count backwards from ten, to quiet anger
to fix yourself.
ten drives back and forth
nine interventions
eight years old
seven years late
six failing classes
five schools switched
four varied medicines
three friends later
two hospital visits
one estrangement too late
i was a challenged kid
but how does one escape those white oak doors
when they are thicker than infinite of me
taller than any old house or memory
ironic
the identity has consumed itself.
YOU ARE READING
NEW HEARTS & COLD SEAS
Poetrywhen they seek you out because they know they can, because they know they can get away with it - anonymity is your friend.
