There thirty-one million, five hundred and thirty-six thousand seconds in a year
And for every single one of those, I haven't stopped for a moment to just live
Every second seems like another one of "those days"
What I think "those days" look like to me is a man burning from within
It looks like black mist covering my eyes from seeing any color
It feels like an upset stomach, but that upset stomach has a migraine
And that migraine has sore body parts,
And those sore body parts have an upset stomach
And that upset stomach isn't upset over some expired food.
It's upset because that stomach has a broken heart
It smells like that one dish my family and I had a few years ago
Or was it nights
Or was it seconds
Or was it a dish my family and I never shared
Maybe it was the smell of the dinner my neighbors were having while I was laying in bed
In reality, it looks like a blob of emotion laying in bed
It feels like hell
And it smells like a slower less being
There thirty-one million, five hundred and thirty-six thousand seconds in a year
And no one other than the school counselor and my 7th grade Language Arts teacher bothered to ask me if I was okay
And for every second of that, I thought to myself "congratulations! You finally saw through my mask! Only around 200 more kids to go!"
Because that is the world we live in now
Because that's just the new trend
Because I fucking bet that everyone one of you mother fuckers can relate to this so well it feels like it's written about you
More and more of us kids are slipping through the floorboards of our own homes
More and more of us kids are living to be more and more respectful to each other
We have learned to live on the playgrounds as a family because when home we sure won't have one
We have learned that sticks and stones can break your bones but words can break your heart
We have all worked together to put on this fake mask to show the world
And you ask why?
It's because we haven't been able to be kids
We have been so caught up in fucking reality that imagination is just fucking bullshit
We've always known that the world isn't unicorns and fucking fairies.
There thirty-one million, five hundred and thirty-six thousand seconds in a year
And just for one, can I please be a kid
YOU ARE READING
A Spark Of Hope
PoetryTHE GESTURE: By George Oppen The question is: how does one hold an apple Who likes apples And how does one handle Filth? The question is How does one hold something In the mind which he intends To grasp and how does the salesman Hold a bauble he int...
