Category: Writers Block
Let me first just say, quite predictably, that I hate this. It's the first thing I've written in over three months, though, so here it is.
He said, listen, I can hear your heart beating,
and he held a stethoscope in his hands like it was
the most wondrous thing he'd ever owned.
He said, look, I can see the planets aligning,
and he held a telescope in his hands like it was
the key to unlock every mystery he'd ever been unable to solve.
And I'm sitting here thinking, how the hell can he find such simplicity
when everything around him is shifting, and one wrong step
could send him over the edge--or maybe that's just me,
because I know that life's a tightrope, and sometimes
it can fray, and sometimes it can tangle,
and I don't have wings to keep me from falling.
There's a girl in the hospital bed next to mine,
and she's got bandages on her wrists,
and she says, man, sometimes life's a drag.
Sometimes, she says, I just wanna be free.
Sometimes, she says, I just wanna let go.
And I turn my face away from her,
I look out the window at the gray, gray world,
because she doesn't even have a clue,
and neither do I.
I've never been the soldier who's too young to have a beer,
but who's old enough to point a gun and pull the trigger.
I've never been the mother, father, sister, or brother who's had to stare
into the dead, lifeless eyes of just another casualty
brought home in a body bag.
I've never been the girl robbed of her dignity,
raped of the freedom to breathe freely,
and there are ropes around the necks of children,
just like the ropes that hang their backyard swings,
and their are mothers washing dishes in scalding water,
because cleansing their hands is the next best thing
to cleansing their souls, and maybe they can
tuck their children in at night with clear consciences.
I said, listen, I can almost hear the angels singing,
and I took another drink, because maybe there's some truth
at the bottom of the bottle.
I said, look, I can almost see your cells dividing,
and I held his hand 'til it hurt, because maybe he's the lifeline
I've been searching for all this time.
And I'm sitting here thinking, how the hell can I turn away from the girl
in the hospital bed next to mine,
when it's all I can do to keep from touching
the scars on my own wrists?
We all bleed when we're cut,
we all cry when we're hurt,
we all just want to be loved,
and I'm a goddamn hypocrite.
Casualties don't just come back from the war in body bags.
I love this poem; it's amazing and I don't think you should hate it--but that's just me. :)
I almost cried Chelsea. Wow. You should make a fictionpress acount, or something because you're one of my favorite poets on here. This was real, raw, powerful and intense. This reaches out and touches something inside, and I like it. Amazing job Chels.
Okay...I haven't looked at this since I posted it, so...thanks, guys! Your words are very much appreciated. And, I have a FictionPress account--I've just never put anything on it. Lol.