FicWad

We write poems cursings our lives,
sharing and connecting our pain through words
like one big twisted puzzle.
As if it was a game.
As if we smiled every time someone wrote a review
swearing it was the darkest and most fantastic thing they'd read.
Our angst is our trading cards
and we all compete to one-up each other.
Because it is a game.
We take our hurt and ball it up then burn it,
and our matches are our poems.
We delude ourselves into thinking that because we have
these burning balls of pain
we're the underbelly of some great beast,
poised to dig its tallons into the core of humanity
and suck out our souls.
We take the things slowly killing us and type them into song.
Then we wait.
And every time another stranger understands
and we read their music and understand
it's a little victory.
For the self-proclaimed freaks.
So we dye our hair.
And slash our pretty little wrists.
We listen to the darkest bands we can find because somehow
it makes us feel more powerful.
We wear black jeans to annouce to the words that "Yes,
we are the broken children. Avoid us.
Because if you don't we'll show you what it's like to hurt."
As if that was some riteous ability.
Because we're the puzzle peices that don't quite fit,
so we just cut off our edges and refuse to fit anywhere.
Then we look at each other and try to connect the only way we know.
We try to share our pain.

And every now and then when we're not infatuated with our hopelessness
we take a step back and our pain morphs to shame.
We're guilty because yeah,
daddy may have left,
and you don't want to tell about the weed under Jason's bed,
and mommy is wasting away in front of Breaking Bad which is so ironic,
and My Chemical Romance and the Beatles aren't around anymore.
But there are kids out there who can count their ribs without and X-Ray.
Kids who have been told how ugly their are since third grade,
to the point where they can no longer bear to look in a mirror.
There are people who have no where to go but the streets,
and no one to turn to but to the sparkling snow that helps them climb above all this.
There are kids who bring nothing but bruises and broken teeth to show and tell,
yet everyone refuses to be told.
There are bald people out there who are planted forever in a hospital bed,
like flowers that will eternally refuse to grow.
If a child dies and no one care enough to listen do they still make a sound?
And among these people walking among the minefields
some are going to fall.
Off a bridge.
Onto a rope necklace.
Into sleep that they won't ever wake up.


And here we are wallowing in sarrow,
too embarresed and ashamed because we know it could be worse
but here we are.
And we can't tell what end of the minefield we're on.
And we're realizing our misfourtune while the others fall like dominoes.
And we watch.
And for a moment we stop thinking about ourself and want to do nothing more
than to reach to the others and offer our arms for support.
But the sad reality is we'll go on and soon forget,
and go back to slicing rivers on ourselves and taking life for granted.
We watch.
And we forget because we think we can do nothing.

We.

The misfitting puzzle pieces.