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.

Mice Become Men.

This is wrong, I feel.

Petty earthquakes shatter my ground,

As I arrive helpless and unaware

Of the damage left undone,

The words left unsaid,

The temper that equally, we do not share.

Perhaps it’s time

For mice to become men.

In this war I foresee,

In this battle I shall rage,

Against your damnation,

Against your sins,

Unlocking your narrow minded cage.

For this new place I had hope,

In this new place I found a hollow

Scapegoat of lies.

Your words will not damn me.

From this low, I shall rise.

-N.B.

Sunrise

Heavy clouds shut out the sun,

as I fell in deep.

Enconcsed in darkness, your hand was my rope,

Your voice led the way,

For this burrowed mole, you filled with hope.

How did you do it?

Butterflies dance to the tune of your laugh.

Your steps leaving trails of gold,

Sunshine in your wake.

The Earth had crumbled beneath me

Before your gleeful soul stilled my quake.

Your face is magic,

Like wrinkles carved from laughter.

Happiness etched into your eyes.

Knowing your smile could carry me home.

Oh, to die in your sunrise.

-N.B.

Memoirs of the Passive Aggressive: Lion Inside Me

Push, shove, hit me once more.

The Lion who waits for you, stands at your door.

Red rash, scratch, bleeds till I’m sore

My mouth may be silent, but she’s keeping score.

Careless assumptions fly

like darts to my eyes,

While she’s steadying hers,

Aiming to pounce at your lies.

As I take in your cruel voice, with it’s ear numbing shrill,

Shes waiting to swallow you whole, Like a whale eats her krill.

Those heavy words from your mouth, the one you never pause,

May sting sharp like a bee,

But she’s sharpening her claws.

Push, shove,

Open your door,

The Lion who waits for you,

Waits here, no more.

Lower your gaze, you narrow minded louse.

I thought I was a lion,

But, when it comes to fighting back,

I am really just a mouse.

-N.B.

My Love

This poem was suppose to be completely different. I was suppose to write a found poem about flavors, but having strayed so far away from that subject, I completed something I wanted to write more. The funny thing about writing is that I don’t always know where I’m headed or what my purpose was in the beginning. It’s as if the deeper pockets of my mind escape and emotions I’ve buried away come out of hiding. This one is about not fitting in, being different and, sometimes, feeling alone in a room full of people. People you know, people you don’t know. It doesn’t really matter. When you’re sinking, it all feels the same. In those moments, it takes every ounce of my being to just nod and smile. Keep up the charade, until I can escape and be alone. Only then, do I not feel alone.

My love, please do not slip into the darkness,

Pitch black, where spiders crawl.

When the weight of the world has crushed you,

Please, do not fall,

Through the gaping hole beneath you,

The one that knows your plight.

The sinner who speaks to your weakness.

The seer who stole your sight.

My love, please maintain your grip.

When the sun sets over the horizon,

Remember the golden day and sip,

On the little black birds calmly chirping,

Their songs emitted through the trees.

Remember the children and their laughter.

Forget the storm that brought you to your knees.

My love, please take my hand.

I’m feigning strength for you.

I’ve seen the darkness in that hole.

I’ve felt the cold chill of judgement, the cruel slap of conformity.

I’ve feared the numbing of my soul.

My love, please listen,

I promise there is a way.

To rise above the flames of normalcy,

To live in the sparkle of the golden embers,

And weather out the storm.

Don’t worry, my love, I’ll be your shield,

I fight this everyday.

-N.B.