I Use to Pity the Disabled, Now I Pity Myself

Did I feel that she was less than me. Did I see her as inferior…thus she must be in pain? She was evidently intellectually disabled and I immediately felt bad, I felt pity. Who am I to feel pity, what authority do I possess? Who is to say she was in pain? What I see as supposed normality is mine, but for her, her existence is normality. And for him, and for them, and for they – their normality is theirs! What if she sees us as the sufferers? It is known that those with autism live on a different spectrum of life. They see, hear sounds, and experience the world in complete difference, I wonder if they feel pity for us? 

Normal. Normal. Normal. This word itself is the quintessence of insanity, of abnormality. I think I am the one suffering, I think we are the ones who are striving to fit in. To be normal, this very idea should be pitied. 

I became uncomfortable with my own presence. I felt disgusted with my thoughts, which where uncontrollable. I had no control, the emotions I felt became of its own will. I see a journey in us all to undo all that we have been told and gather new consciousness and perspective. It will not be easy to undo that which operates on a unconscious level ; to thwart that which thinks before we think. 

  I use to pity the disabled, now I pity myself. 

I fell down the stairs: I’m just Tired

Normal people just say “I’m Tired,” but for a writer it is never that simple. Those words would never describe inside. A mind filled with commas, spaces, poetic pauses, and multiple literally elements is far too convoluted and filled to use common words.

This is me saying I’m tired. This is me saying I want to take a nap. Talk about dramatic!

~I took a step and thought it was firm. The bottom of the staircase bruised and beaten I look up for help. Raise my hands, grab the edge, and yell.

Today is still a good day, I remind myself. Just a little blood, a twisted ankle, and wrangled back – my watch still works. It’s 5:00 o’clock, the entire night is ahead. I have people to call, words to look up, day dreams to scribble down, I got to get up. But it feels good to lay down for once. The blood is warm. My foot looks like a puppet’s, without its master. ~

To Cry In Silence

A swelling of tears tsunami’s his bowels. A bouquet of smiles for onlookers.

Eyes, a humanistic dam grappling pain. Sweetest gestures of joviality to passersby’s.

Tears dropping, mouth wide open, clutching a towel against his face – no sound.

He washes his face, dries his hands, brushes the beard, and primps his shirt, a meeting in 10.

Expect laughter, wait for the punch line, be inspired by his presence, adore his perfectionism.

But miss his humanity. Mistake his red eyes as hardworking. Assume his tardiness as busy, make light of his bruises as battles won, and lastly jest of his silver… platter… life.

An Incantation for Ancestral Power

If I ever find myself weak, weak in thought and weak in spirit, may I be reminded of the infinite power of my ancestors. May I dip myself in their prayers and hymnal voices. Drought, death, and dread could not spear their souls. Why shall I encourage power less than mine to overcome.

The dead walk beside me, they course through me. I am because they were. “I come as one, but stand as 10,000.”

From a Tree to Me

How deep your roots. How pleasant your fruit. Tell me your secrets. What is god like? Does he smile, does she dance? Is it fair? Tell me how the beginning was nothing more than the end. How beautiful was the first step of man? The first birth of women. How she elegantly combed her hair. How deep does the soul really go? I wonder if the pain of love is truly etched on our hearts. Can you draw a dream from the scars? I imagine heaven is like soup, tomato soup. Warm, dedicated, and made with love.

As I Grow Old

To feel imperfection is to be alive. I am faulted. Each day I see a new wrinkle. I trace the receding nature of my hair. I experience the click clack of my knees. I am no longer a child. I see the elderly and do not laugh, I wonder…Who were they then? At what age did sickness and health meet?

I watched (which felt like forever) an elderly man and woman walk
hand-in-hand down the sidewalk. Their pace was painstakingly slow yet unbearable beautiful. Imagine just imagine, once upon a time they ran, ran down sidewalks and skipped across streets – a speed as a child I envied to reach. Long legs. Reassured direction. Knowledge of symbols on poles. No parents.

I envied the older. Now I envy the old. Every tinge I feel, I think to myself this is it. Every night from work before I place my head, I stretch my back. The labor of the day has stiffened its length. In between shifts I stop at the mirror and stare, one day it will not be toothpaste but Poligrip.

This may sound like Hell. I call it beautiful madness. Some wish for cars and mansions, I yearn to grow old. I hope to wake and sit at the edge of the bed to catch my breath. I got up too fast. My heart is racing. I’m sweating like hell! I wish to walk up flights of stairs and stop on the third step as I hold up the line. I’ll smirk at their impatience. I wish to sit in parks all day, barely moving, as the kids ask if I’m alive. I am, just admiring the landscape. I want to go to Church with sunglasses as I nod in and out of sleep – an hour is just too damn long!

I wish for life in my staggered breath. I wish for patience in my “hard a hearing” ears. I wish for wisdom in my speech. I wish for grandchildren that take delight in me telling the same story over and over.

I think today I’ll walk a little slower. Maybe I’ll name my wrinkles. And instead of calling myself faulted and aged, I’ll say congratulations you made it another day.

I Have That Itch – I Am Being Called To Serve

I am getting that itch, you know the one. The one when I have to leave. The one when I feel that all my work is done and there is nothing I can teach you. I have given you all the tools you need to survive.  But most importantly, I am being called somewhere else. Where? I do not know, but I am being called. I can feel them or him or her calling me. Help is needed, my guidance is wanted.  A new adventure awaits. It is a life style I am becoming accustomed to; one I am beginning to understand.  I would love to stay in one place but I cannot, this is not quite my reality yet.

 

I learn and teach. I make and give. I teach and learn. I give and make.  I am a traveler of sorts. An inventor of many. An explorer of times. I am alive. I have to share what I have learned to give what is needed. I have to learn what is experienced and then spread what needs to be known. This is my calling, this is my being…this is my life.

 

This next place feels hot. It feels quiet and unsaid. I feel energy kept, waiting to be released. I see sex, I hear drugs, and my eyes burn from the lights. I do not know this place but I have heard of this town. I have seen these people but I have not met them. They know of me but have never dreamed of me. I am their hope, they are my aspiration. This place feels right. There is a lesson waiting.

My Love is Too Wild to Be Caged

This is the second poem I wrote after watching Tyler Perry’s “For Colored Girls.”  My hand rushed against the paper to bring a message of internal surge. As I read it now I feel power, pain, courage, fear, and love. This poem is a mesh of all my experiences – triumphants and failures. I did not like the poem at first, but after watching my friend’s expression after she read it I became intrigued. Between you and I…I think the poem is so personal that I am afraid to share it.

 

~My Love is Too Wild to Be Caged~

 

My love is too wild to be caged

Too pure to be thrown in my face

My love is too raw to be cooked, boiled, and seasoned

My love is too Godly to be served, to be written, and spoken.

 

For a gay boy my love is just as real

I am unashamed of my body and its wants

For a gay boy my love is too real to be sexualized

For a gay boy my body is too manly to be demeaned

My heart is too red to be diluted, too fierce to be tamed.

 

As a man my heart is too real

As a man my heart is here, hard, and soft

Melting and stone. Hard. Soft. Crazy. Painful and full.

 

As a man my heart is me

As a gay boy my heart is me

As a child my heart is me

As me my heart is here.

A New Lease On Life

I wrote this a couple of months back when I was bedridden. I rather experience 10,000 heartbreaks than lie in bed wondering if I will ever see Christmas as I once did.

During this time I learned what true friendship and family meant. As I layed there in thought, misery, and shame they ensured I never felt lonely. True friendship and family are relentless and unwavering in their pursuit to adore and love you. They smother you with love, they do not care if you want it or not. They do not leave you alone even if you want to be left alone. Sometimes in your lowest points you want to be miserable, but they stop you right there and interject themselves. And you know what – it works!

Without them I would be nothing. Without them…without them…without them…I could not breath.

 

 *A New Lease On Life*

~Gahhh!  It was a month from Hell. A month I never want to relive or re-visit. My energy was stolen. My hope was diminished. My body was slain. And my faith began to fade. Only through one eye was I able to see the world, which at this point slowly began distancing itself from me. Life began to seem whimsical and faity-tailish. But I knew it was upon me. Before I fell into darkness I patiently waited for its arrival. I met the mornings by peering through the blinds to ensure the porch was free of shadows. The evenings were a blaze of screeching tires and horns to escape cold fingers. And the nights consisted of locked doors and bodily shivers under covers at the tinge of any sound.

 

Finally, fatigue introduced itself first. Headache swiftly came next. And Irritation was the last to sit down…or so I thought. Unbeknown to me, my guests invited guests. They arrived later, opened the fridge without asking and ate strength, dignity, and my future. I cannot tell a lie and say they did not bring gifts because they did. After stripping my table of its beauty they laid another kind of setting, a Brothers Grimm inspired setting. Forks of shame, napkins of tears, cups of solitude, gravy of regret, a turkey filled with isolation, and of course my favorite a freshly baked bread of annihilated dreams.  

 

The end was closing in on me and inadvertently my family. All I could think of was shame. In my mind I was battling the lesser of two evils. If given the option I would have chosen pain over shame. And if you knew my options neither of them would be anything you would want to pull out of a hat.

 

How could I have let the madness inside me drive me to this point? I was reckless in my actions, heartless in my endeavors, and ruthless in my delusional conquest. I wanted to prove a point to a person who was not even listening. I wanted to show myself a good time knowing damn well it could never amount to happiness and true revenge. My face bubbled in fury. The sin that lived within surfaced and showed its face.  It itself wanted to be free, wanted air to breath. It became tired of being overlooked and fed scraps. ~

 

It is time the Broken Hearted Reclaim Their Lives.