She is not just another girl…….not just a girl. Never just a girl.
Category: The World Calls Me
Wheelchair
I once saw a girl in a pink wheelchair,
But I don’t think anyone else did,
Always looking away as if was a contagious impair.
She was trying to act normal,
And keeping really still,
Trying to control her arms and legs,
That always moved against her will.
And I wish I had enough courage,
To walk up to her and say,
“Don’t try to normal,
Just because you feel like running away.”
I’m sorry your legs don’t work like mine,
And I never appreciated it before,
But thanks to you,
I’ll never over look it anymore.
I’m sorry people see your condition,
Which is not at all of you,
But people never see that,
Because their point of view.
You can never run away and hide,
Like I can always do,
And when there are games to be played,
I wonder if anyone invites you.
It must be hard watching from the sidelines,
And watching actions seem so effortless,
And I don’t think people even realize,
The extend of their unkindness.
But as for me I now know,
I’ll never look at you differently,
Because I now understand,
How hard it must be.
Self Portriat
I did a self-portrait today,
And when I looked at it,
I cried.
The girl I painted there,
Was not one I ever thought,
I would be,
When I was younger.
I thought I would be happy,
Neatly organized,
Perfectly aligned,
Full of technique,
And brillance……..
But no,
My self-portrait was different.
It had a girl,
With crazy hair,
A freckled nose,
Colors swirled on her skin,
Eyelids,
And cheekbones.
The colors like bruises,
Bright,
And strange.
And I wondered,
Why I painted myself so.
Then words came flooding back,
As if a dam had been broken.
Thoughts,
Ideas,
“Friends”,
And words filled my head.
But there were not good words,
They were dark words.
Bad words.
Horribly words.
And words that were used,
To describe me,
By others who never cared,
To know me beyond my skin.
And then I knew,
My self-portrait was so crazy:
I was crazy.
I was not going to fit into lines,
Squeeze into techniques,
Or fold myself into harsh shapes.
I was going to wild,
Colorful,
Exciting,
Full of brilliance,
And purely myself.
So when I painted bruises,
That is ok,
Because we all have,
Wonderfully colorful bruises,
From words spoken behind our backs in halls,
Or to our faces by “friends.”
I have bruises from words,
Do you?
Darling,
Don’t let one thing define you.
Don’t just be the girl who wears pink,
And blue striped socks.
Or the one who doodles on her hands and shoes.
Don’t take your wonderful mess,
Of large hips,
And wild words,
And try to squeeze it,
Into a 2 by 4 square,
Labeled,
“Quirky,”
Or “Wierd.”
Don’t take the normal adjectives,
You have always heard,
And place them a label,
Right below your name.
Because darling,
If they were ever used to describe you,
They have been overused.
No one could simply sum you up,
From your bright painted toe-nails,
To the roots of your curly and frizzy hair.
Take crazy words,
Like paracosm,
Logolepsy,
Waldeinsamkeit,
Resfeber,
And iktsuarpok,
And throw them around like confetti.
Because darling,
Don’t trap or squeeze yourself,
Under a one word subtitle,
Underneath the word “Me,”
When you are,
So amazingly magnificent.
So darling,
Be a never-ended scrapbook of old thoughts, obessions, feelings, and emotions.
Because that is the best way,
To live as yourself.
6-12
When I was six years old,
I told fairytales,
As I heard them,
Like they were whispered,
In my ear,
And I quietly told,
My friends,
About dragons,
Princess,
Knights,
And Towers.
When I was eight,
I poured out my stories,
In a battered notebook,
And never let it,
Out of my sight.
When I was eleven,
I typed my first series,
On our old computer,
And proudly showed my parents.
When I was twelve,
I took a writing class,
And finished the year,
With an F.
Two of my teachers,
Told me that writing,
Was useless,
And that you could never,
Make it far in life,
As long as,
You wrote.
My notebook grew dusty,
And my proudly typed books,
Were shoved underneath my bed,
Because everyone told me,
That writing,
Had no purpose in the world.
My friends don’t remeber,
The stories I told,
And all my low-grade papers,
Sit in a folder,
Mocking me,
Saying that I,
Was not good enough,
Of a writer,
To pass the class.
Years later now,
I understand that,
I can write,
But that does not mean,
That everyone will like it,
And praise me.
I simply must conclude,
That the only person,
Who needs to like my writing,
Is me.
I have millions of unfinshed word docs,
And works yet to write,
But I know,
That I will never give up writing,
As long as,
I enjoy it,
And not let it,
Be influenced,
By the people,
Who told me,
That writing,
Was useless.
L’s (Amnesia)
It’s on the days like this,
Darling,
That you are going to forget,
Who you are,
And what you can do.
On these days,
Let me remind you,
That a day,
Is only twelve hours,
And a night,
Is only twelve more,
So forgetting,
Only lasts so long.
And when the day,
Stretches into more days,
And those into weeks,
Never forget,
That I know,
Who you are,
And that when,
You want to find yourself again,
Call me,
Because this is what I will say:
You are your wispy black hair,
That falls to the middle of your back.
You are your wire rimmed glasses,
Which slip constantly down your nose.
You are your closet full,
Of Maine sweatshirts,
An obession that never fades.
You are the yellow heart-shaped sunglasses,
Your great aunt gave you.
You are your saffron colored socks,
That have holes,
In the toes and heels.
You are your pale green eyes,
Which darken when you are sad.
You are the black glitter,
You have in jars on your dresser.
You are the bean plants,
Growing in coke cans,
On the porch.
You are all the sunrises,
And sunsets you have watched.
And my darling,
You are you.
So when your forgetting,
Hits week four tomorrow,
Please don’t forget,
Me.
Because then,
We will both forget ourselves,
And I do not want,
To have to forget,
You,
Because you,
Are the most beautiful thing,
I have come across,
In the world,
Where people,
Forget,
Forgive,
And find themselves.
So darling,
Please don’t forget me,
Tomorrow while watching,
The sunrise,
Because I don’t want,
To be able to write,
Real poetry,
About heartbreak,
Because of you.
Kid
As a kid,
You have to love yourself,
Because sometimes,
You might not always,
Have people who do.
You have to wake up,
At 6 am,
Make some tea,
And watch the sunrise.
Don’t drink coffee,
Because it’s bad for you,
And not very many people,
Will tell you that.
You have to sit next to,
The weird kid on the bus,
And ask a random question,
Even if your palms sweat.
You should make good choices,
Because enough of the people,
You grow up with,
Won’t,
And they will go down,
A path you don’t want to travel.
So after school,
Go home,
Do your homework,
Play outside,
Build something with,
Your old bike wheels,
And some duck tape.
When you are sad,
Take hot showers,
And remember,
That things always get better.
Listen to,
Your favorite band in the morning,
And try your hand,
At song writting..
Wash your bedsheets,
After a messy art experiment,
And put them on your bed,
Smelling like lemon,
And lavender laundry detergent,
With black and green paint stains.
Don’t fill yourself with regrets,
Of things you won’t remember,
In two years.
Never focus too much on the future,
Because that beat up Ford,
In the junk yard,
Is an example of a life,
Taken too soon,
When someone thought to leave,
All behind,
And follow the road of asfualt,
Until it ended.
Never laugh at that girl,
In one of your classes,
Who stutters when she talks,
Because boy can she sing.
Don’t judge people too fast,
And don’t live too slow,
And kid,
The last bit of advice I can give you is:
Never get tired of living,
Because some people do,
And your future is bright,
As long as you hang in there.
Perfectly Imperfect Me 