Poop

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The Day Before I Went To The Mental Hospital I Wrote: What Makes Me Curl Up In A Ball: A List Of Sorts By Jason Bartlett God protect the young angel. I can tell that some people have never felt real happiness. They have just felt money, and the joy of greed. I'm not afraid to show you off, I'm afraid to show myself. I see the world through the eyes of a newborn. As we get older we become more conscious of others being aware of us. Eventually we just fade away. I never touch my face because it feels like my beard will fall off. Things I can never be, bumblebee in my mind, keep me awake at white collar dawn. Someone said that I write love poems even though the love shatters into a million pieces, the seeds of which make flowers grow, but yet, I write anyway. I haven't been to any of the places the wind blew them, And I don't think I ever will go. Even if I was stuck in a dungeon, I'd find a crayon box and make art. I wish someone would ask me what each verse means, before I forget. I think I stay up at night so the future comes quicker. Everytime I take off my belt, I know it holds my jeans up. Only, I must have a real odd idea of how the world works because of the movies. I feel like nothing I do has an end. What is the end? What is living? If everyone has their own definition of living, why does it feel like I could die tomorrow? Will people at my funeral say, "He really lived. He knew how to live."? I keep waiting for somebody to show me how to live, or at least love my life. I don't want to live for somebody else. I miss swimming, and how tired and hungry it made my muscles feel. I keep dreaming of being allowed in the boys locker room and what it would be like to wear the proper uniform. I never go to do it, and I dream o thin... ... middle of paper ... ...ds me of being alone in a tall lifeguard chair as music played in the distance bouncing off silent sand. The people in your drawings look like empty white ghosts, I think that's exactly what the city population looks like. Hollow whited out people. Your number on a napkin like Beatles lyrics on a flightless cancelled day because there was snow covered up to our hearts. And the way your letters dip shows you are an artist. That not even the alphabet can hold you back. And I wish I could be like that. The old man in the taxi didn't say a word, after an evening full of letter boxes. I wonder if everyone is just as intrigued by others listening to lips speak. I want to know the secret of fame, keep it once and give it away. To cold outside for a flame, too cold to have any habits at all. I know I am somebody now, just not sure I'll have something to show for it someday.

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