When Small Men Fall

Small men will fall,

short of their expectations.

Their onset of pride,

brewing, like the storm in their eyes.

Lies they will spout,

out of spiteful, little mouths.

Small men will break,

under the pressure they seek.

When their greed is uncovered,

smothered in apathetic promises,

concocted with spiteful little minds.

 

Small men will fade,

like the shadows in the night,

like thunder come sunlight.

No light-

-ning shall transpire-

here, where smoke filled mouths will never tire.

 

Small men, you will fall

like autumn leaves when November breaks.

Lest you let your pride be what winter takes,

And shake the dust off long closed eyes.

For a wiseman, reborn in Spring,

Will watch in awe,

As women rise.

-N.B.

 

 

Broken

I do not expect you to understand.

Every time you bear witness to my tears, I feel ashamed.

You see, every time I go back, this wound tears apart, never healed,

A fresh cut, bright red, only stings.

I scurry to piece together my bandaged, broken wings.

This hole, I have yet to fill,

Will swallow me whole.

I am numb to the world around me,

Because up until now, I have not reckoned,

When my vulnerabilities beckoned,

For me to try, For me to heal.

Around me, I never wanted this to revolve.

With me, I only wanted to deal,

And resolve,

My broken heart.

And, no, I do not need your guilt.

This plight is blameless,

If my tears are shameless.

What I need is you to tell me, “It will all be okay,”

What I need is your promise that there is a better way.

-N.B.

Outside

Outside I am:

Watching as they smile,

Listening as they laugh,

Sitting as they dance.

Looking away when they look back,

Glass walls holds me hostage.

But inside, I:

Press my face up to the view,

Of the people I once knew,

All reasons aside,

Let history slide,

Away from this room,

Away from this crowd,

Of blood like mine.

Wishing I was someone else,

Someone forgiven,

Someone brave,

Someone, unafraid,

Of wearing the dress,

Despite your brothers unsolicited shame.

Of dancing a mess,

Despite your body unwilling to be anything but tame.

For love of fun,

For connections and bonds,

For a string of familiarity I could never knit,

For a friendship spark from a candle never lit.

I sit here wishing, hoping, dreaming,

Of a life where I was in,

With those whom I love.

Of a life where I was one

With the laughter around me.

But instead I am me,

Solo girl on this whirlwind ride.

Face pressed against the glass,

Looking in, from the outside.

-N.B.

A Poem A Day Keeps the Doctor Away

(The mental doctor that is)

The Squirrel & The Fox

“I suppose I should write. I should really write something down,” said the sad fox to the lonely squirrel.

“I find that it is best to write in times so grey,” the squirrel returned.

“I think myself a lion, at times of brave display”

“Me thinks you’re just a coward, who likes to laugh and play,”

“Or, perhaps, I am a bird, flying free beneath the clouds!”

“Or, perhaps, your head is dense and heavy, and your wings are made of shrouds.”

“Dear squirrel, dost thou mock me? With lines so dry and grey?”

“Dear sir, why I would never, your mind doth carry you away. Oh my friend, I know your plight and I shall aid you in this quest! I can rid you of your riddles, and form a key to all your locks.”

“Dear squirrel, pray, you help me! Can thou free me from this box?”

“My dear friend, hear me closely. Your fur is brown and short, your eyes are dark and wide, your paws are sharp with daggers. Dear sir, you are a fox.”

-N.B.

Is It Too Late?

One of the first poems I had ever written was when I was twelve. I wrote a quaint little poem about colors and I submitted it to my teacher, Mr. Someone (For lack of a better anonymous name, I will be referring to my teacher as Mr. Someone). Although I did not realize it at the time, I was head over heels for Mr. Someone. See, for a twelve year old girl, who never felt like she fit in anywhere, having a teacher who believed in you was everything. Every morning in Mr. Someone’s english class he would set aside thirty minutes for free writing. He told us we could write anything we wanted. I asked him if I could write a poem and he said, “of course!”
So when he gave me back my poem about colors, I was pleased to see that he loved it! His exact words were “Hey, I’m color blind and I love this!” I was mortified. I had no idea that I had just wrote a whole page worth describing colors and handed it in to a man who could not see them. Despite this minor embarrassment, Mr. Someone continued to encourage me to write poems and so I did. I wrote poems about sadness, happiness, friendship, courage and my fears. What I did not understand at the time was that this teacher had reached in through my invisible wall and turned on this creative engine I did not know existed. I truly loved writing. It gave me a sense of freedom to speak my mind that I never really thought I was capable of. So, then, what happened?
I grew up. I changed. I listened to those who told me creative pursuits would get me no where and make me no money. Instead, I took the advice of those older and wiser than me, also known as my dad, and followed in my mom’s footsteps. I majored in biology and became a laboratory technician. Three and half years later, that is what I am today. But the truth is, I am not happy. If I could go back, I would tell myself to write a different story. In fact, maybe that’s exactly what I am telling myself right now. As I pick up the keyboard and begin to write again, I feel alive. I feel like my truest self. I want to write every day and be free of the confinements I have been locking myself in since I decided that following your passion was not what “normal” people did. It’s okay to not fit in. It’s okay to be different and it is never too late to change.
-N.B.

I Am The Troll

Please do not tell me I am not who I am,

Though my worth has dwindled

From the girl I have been.

Heavy winds free my soul,

Sweep me up into your storm.

Self awareness formed this bridge,

And now I pay the toll.

To know oneself truly,

Cuts deep into shallow skin,

Fresh blood pools in waves,

Crashing and burning deep within.

Who am I, I now ask,

The naysayer who tore me in half,

The disbeliever who crushed my spirit,

The false friend who would not hear it.

Those around me,

Who pocket my blame,

In a coat, on a rainy day,

Disappear behind glass windows

Of the house I call my home.

In my home, which I call safe.

Spiteful souls, there are none.

But as a I gaze into the mirror,

And look upon my broken face,

I see the truth reflecting back,

Behind the barrel of a gun.

-N.B.