My untitled poem

96 2 0
                                    

When I was a young child I loved the rain, mainly because of how much it rained here. I was told the legend of a beautiful angel who was sent to the clouds as a punishment for loving a mere mortal called a human being. When it rained it was her tears crying for the soul she was forced to give up. I fell in love with this story; my grandmother would tell me many of these legends. Each one unique in its own way, I fell in love with these narratives. But there was one story in particular, this one unlike my grandmother's other stories was real.  

She started by saying how there was still illegal love. She told me this romance about two young girls who were in love, how it was forbidden for them to show devotion. The young girls only saw heart in a society that only saw gender. How society turned love to what it shouldn't be. Hate. My grandmother told me how they would sneak at midnight almost every single night, usually into the wilderness. One night one of the young girls started to cry. Her lover asked "why?" The love-struck girl answered "how it's unfair that these straight couple can marry out of anything but love, and get a divorce whenever, yet two young girls who see love beyond gender cannot marry due to both being feminine". The lover of the girl laughed and said " as long as we have each other than nothing will happen, and one day the world will be brave enough to accept us and see how two hearts are destined to be, despite gender, despite anything" Little did the young girl know tragedy would strike. 

Her lover was found dead in a bush. The day she died something strange occurred. There was rain. The young girl was heartbroken because the young girl promised as long as we have each other nothing will happen. The girl forgot how to love and agreed to an arrange marriage. She did it out of pain not love. After the story was told I could see pain and anger in my grandmother's eyes, when I asked her why she was crying she told something that I simply admired. She said "love is worth it and it's a sin that love has to be hidden, not shown." I learned that day what a cruel world it was. Now when I looked at the rain I would think about the young lovers who are forbidden to admire one another, due to how they were made. 

My grandmother passed away a few years later and I remember she told me that even standing alone to prove my point is braver than being in a big crowd chanting something you are against is just unfortunate and quite sad. I always admired my grandmother for her humane way of seeing life. After her funereal I remember feeling how the girl felt in my grandma's story, how it saddened me that I will never get to listen to another story ever again. I forgot what love was like. My grandmother also believed in literature, so when it would rain I would think of the angel. I would think of how my parents were never there for me. My grandmother told me I had a knack for writing. I would write stories about love being seen beyond gender. Stories about how the rain had magical powers that could heal, powers by the angel how she would help any broken heart. I lived to see my grandmother big smile as she read my stories. She would tell me stories, and I would write. I always thought how the pen was powerful beyond unknown reason. That was my first story. A pen can hold letters, things that make bigger things more official. The pen is mightier than the sword is quite true, is it possible the pen made the sword? 

My grandma told me the story of a legend of how the pen represented the underdog, how it came to beat the sword. Yes life does treat you as an underdog, and to stand no matter what is thrown in your way. I was empowered by characters that had strength and will. The stories I would hear would make me think of this world, how my humanity was shrinking. I started high school, 2 years after my grandmother died. What made it worse was that I did not have my grandmother's stories. I wish I could see her smile as I wrote. I was beyond secretive as a child. As I grew my secrets become worse. I wrote a poem, I decided not to give it a title as strange as it is I felt like it needed no title. I wrote the story of a young boy, he was seen as nothing but a mistake, by which I related to because no one believed in me well, no one but my grandmother, but she is not here anymore. I wrote that the secrets weren't in my head. I wrote the rain may have given me hope but lacked in emotion that the knife offered. My secrets where all over my body, not just from the knife but the aftermaths of last night, usually from my dad as a reminder how life is. How my windows have been closed, and how my grandmother let me escape the tragic reality of my past. During the funeral my dad gave me a big smile as if it was game over for me. I like to think I'm the pen. They said writing my story will help me, but all I can see and think is how I'm not as sane as the others. I was different because I was the only one in my school who saw love as what it was not who it was. 

All I can say is even the pen must run out of ink, and I can feel the ink disappear. Tomorrow may or may not come, but if this is my last document, then let me tell you this, remember the young lovers, well the love-struck girl was my grandmother, and the angel was her lover.

@NitaiSchwartz

You've reached the end of published parts.

⏰ Last updated: Mar 11, 2014 ⏰

Add this story to your Library to get notified about new parts!

My untitled poemWhere stories live. Discover now