The Story of Kyle
One day, when I was a freshman in high school, I saw a kid from my class walking home from school. His name was Kyle. It looked like he was carrying all of his books. I thought to myself, “Why would anyone bring home all his books on a Friday? He must really be a nerd.”
I had quite a weekend planned (parties and a football game with my friends tomorrow afternoon), so I shrugged my shoulders and went on. As I was walking, I saw a bunch of kids running toward him. They ran at him, knocking all his books out of his arms and tripping him so he landed in the dirt. His glasses went flying, and I saw them land in the grass about ten feet from him. He looked up, and I saw this terrible sadness in his eyes.
My heart went out to him. So I jogged over to him, and as he crawled around looking for his glasses, I saw a tear in his eye. As I handed him his glasses, I said, “Those guys are jerks. They really should get lives.” He looked at me and said, “Hey thanks!” There was a big smile on his face. It was one of those smiles that showed real gratitude.
I helped him pick up his books and asked him where he lived. As it turned out, he lived near me, so I asked him why I had never seen him before. He said he had gone to private school before now. I would have never hung out with a private school kid before, but we talked all the way home, and I carried his books.
He turned out to be a pretty cool kid. I asked him if he wanted to play football on Saturday with me and my friends. He said yes.
We hung out all weekend, and the more I got to know Kyle, the more I liked him. And my friends thought the same of him. Monday morning came, and there was Kyle with the huge stack of books again. I stopped him and said, “Boy, you are gonna really build some serious muscles with this pile of books everyday!” He just laughed and handed me half the books.
Over the next four years, Kyle and I became best friends. When we were seniors, we began to think about college. Kyle decided on Georgetown, and I was going to Duke. I knew that we would always be friends, that the miles would never be a problem. He was going to be a doctor, and I was going for business on a football scholarship.
Kyle was valedictorian of our class. I teased him all the time about being a nerd. He had to prepare a speech for graduation. I was so glad it wasn’t me having to get up there and speak.
On graduation day, I saw Kyle. He looked great. He was one of those guys that really found himself during high school. He filled out and actually looked good in glasses. He had more dates than me and all the girls loved him! Boy, sometimes I was jealous. Today was one of those days. I could see that he was nervous about his speech, so I smacked him on the back and said, “Hey, big guy, you’ll be great!” He looked at me with one of those looks (the really grateful one) and smiled. “Thanks,” he said.
As he started his speech, he cleared his throat, and began. “Graduation is a time to thank those who helped you make it through those tough years. Your parents, your teachers, your siblings, maybe a coach — but mostly your friends. I am here to tell all of you that being a friend to someone is the best gift you can give them. I am going to tell you a story.” I just looked at my friend with disbelief as he told the story of the first day we met. He had planned to kill himself over the weekend. He talked of how he had cleaned out his locker so his mom wouldn’t have to do it later and was carrying his stuff home. He looked hard at me and gave me a little smile. “Thankfully, I was saved. My friend saved me from doing the unspeakable.”
I heard the gasp go through the crowd as this handsome, popular boy told us all about his weakest moment. I saw his mom and dad looking at me and smiling that same grateful smile. Not until that moment did I realize its depth.
Never underestimate the power of your actions. With one small gesture, you can change a person’s life.
There are few things in the world more depressing than the knowledge that a 65 year-old Somali gynecologist has bigger balls than you could ever hope to achieve even if you gave yourself steroid collagen injections to the scrotum every night and set up an induction port that allowed you to inflate them with an air pump like a basketball or those high-top sneakers from the early 90s.
Meet Hawa Abdi. A woman who has never raised her fist in anger against another human being, but also one who could perform three C-sections on dirt-poor women, wash her hands, then go straight outside, stare down an army of gun-toting hardcore fanatical Somali militiamen, and with four words send them running for their lives on a light-speed rainbow of shame and self-loathing without even blinking. A woman once appropriately described once as “one part Mother Teresa, one part Rambo.”
You MUST read this.
Winter months do seem to linger.
Upon a sheet of snow.
Do I see her face upon your chest;
Her smile is lit aglow.
Frost upon my fingertips,
and ice within my lungs.
The frantic beating of my heart,
the sound of congo drums.
Mouth as dry as cotton,
Feet as cold as snow.
I try to move my feeble frame,
These nerves begin to show.
As I inch towards your being,
Does my mind begin to race.
Back and forth across the room,
do I find myself apace.
Soon I find the courage,
bitter but to taste,
and as I feel my feet move,
I soon forget my place.
My mind begins to wander,
my steps begin to dance.
I’m in between your lover,
I never stood a chance.
Dizzy from my thoughts,
or the liquid I consumed;
I see myself in front of her,
and soon in front of you.
And here, in my loudest voice, do I seem to say;
“Watch me in these moments, watch me walk away”
“I will not turn and look back, and you will not forget..
That life is full of mistakes and soon to be regret”
“I hope that she was worth it, I hope she knows you well,
In your darkest hours, time will soon foretell”
To recognize your notation;
this is all just integration.
Derivations of ‘U’ and ‘I’
is one more thing I do despise.
For numbers and values have no semantics,
and your words like steps become all too frantic.
If this was as simple as 1,2,3,
then integers would have, no company.
No negative, no positive, impartial are these,
Questions and answers, begin to tease.
I cannot read into your brain,
To see the numbers upon this plane.
To graph or see your simple logic,
Cos, sin, tan, and all their quadrants.
If you could be but any degree,
You’d start at zero, and end at 3…
—- 360 degrees; one full turn,
I start again and try to learn.
It seems to me that all I see,
is more confusion, and agony.
Eye to paper I can acclaim,
tear to tear is all in vain.
Scribbles, and crumpling sheets of freshly white,
To start again is too contrite.
And here in English, do I say,
That I’m in too far to run away.
I’ve started this problem with one simple quest,
That I would finish its task to my best.
So when you act a mystery,
Just know my work is indeed for me.
But I can and will start again,
for a problem is a problem with many friends.
If you have not clued into this rhyme,
than I shall say it, one more time.
If I cannot solve this equation,
than I shall refer to a new integration ;)
Aww, I just saw this now lol. I haven’t written in so long, I think I’m going to make a point of writing something every night if I can this week <3
So lackadaisical that words begin to cluster.
And you maunder on about the people we used to be.
Here is the difference between you and I though;
You stopped caring, and I never gave a fuck to begin with.
More in love with the idea of being in love, than I actually was with you.
Now you imbibe, and throw words around the room in haste;
Slurring insults and fostering threats that have no more space to harbour.
I’ve grown tired of your aggression,
and weary of scurrility.
Lately, I’ve been on edge.
Standing at the crossroad of who I am and who you’ve become.
Such an opulent lifestyle we used to lead,
How strange it has become to be, more loaded by the words in my mouth, than the money in my pocket.
She had told me words were daggers,
and I dare not idly throw them.
How quickly have I forgot my childhood lesson,
how readily you’ve remembered yours.
Now taunts, like knives hold tight to my jugular and meek whispers find themselves sneaking from my lips.
But I’m sure to remain quiet. Nothing is more cut throat than silence.
The only thing worse than words spoken, are those yet to be heard.
But you, like the fool you’ve always been, preach mockery between heavy breaths,
providing fuel to this fire.
You misjudged me, my darling.
You have not seen the flames that are buried in my soul,
You have not witnessed the passion that resides in my being.
Mistaken were you by the delicate embrace that collectively described our time shared,
But masks are malleable my love, and your eyes were fooled just as easy as your heart.
You have not seen what lays beyond,
and insanity is more cryptic than mere thoughts and hallucinations.
Seems almost fictitious to picture that one, such as I, would act upon these ideals,
but you were always too quick to judge, and too slow to react.
So tell me, my dear, was her breathe on that night worth yours in passing?
And if so my love, tell me what its like to regret, because I have yet to feel what anything but revenge might taste like.
My oh my, there has never been sweeter.
There’s one thing in life I’ve learned.
No one… and I mean no one,
is worth compromising your morals.
- People are disposable.
Why has it taken me so long to realize that it’s easier to be alone than to be afraid?
Festering in my head, these thoughts are terrifying but the butterflies that pit themselves in my stomach are no better when I’m around you.
I feel sick.
Sick thinking about you.
Sick being with you.
At least in my lonesome I know that my vulnerability cannot fuel further fires.
Smearing the black that pours from my eyes,
like some fitful habit that I can’t seem to shake.
Raking nails against my scalp to pull away at the thoughts that creep into the cracks between my skull… and my brain.
God my brain, like a sponge, so porous, does it suck up your illicit words,
Elicit my smile that sneaks its way from ear to ear.
Agitation in my body.
Irrigation in my soul.
Artificial, are these feelings burrowed in the skeleton of my senses.
Actively, do I attempt to purge the sound of your voice.
How stubbornly rooted have you become to the technologies of my life.
Seven to delete your messages.
Red to erase the history.
Saving face is not so simple when the architecture of your mind can’t construct such as bona fide, or valid, legitimate or believable at that.
To paint a mask upon a crumpled canvas, do lines still predict lies.
— Brush away, fade away, scars are still scars.
Salt mixes with sand, and I will forever feel these burns.
This Bridge has been burned.
Yes, I do :)
Thank you so much! :$
I’m so flattered you like them :D
Why are you on anonymous though? That was really sweet :$
Sanctioned intentions lead to immoral inventions,
Too weary is a tempted mind.
But what the heart doth speak, does the mind still ponder;
incessant flight of thought does grow fonder.
It seems to me that all we have, is an outline for rational,
and criteria for mad.
For my mind does speak to itself in tongues,
that I have not questioned since a time of young
Where belittlement and greed marked my words,
and drastic changes enveloped such spurs.
Of questioning, of truth, of loyalty and rebellion,
Here do I lay in a pool marked with seven.
No luck has caught my arm, my reach, in passing,
and life is ironic like the mad man whose laughing.
Whose thoughts become twisted, whose voice becomes silenced,
Whose eyes tell stories of passion and violence.
But if you seem to analyze anything of sort,
You’ll find yourself lost in the brain’s lonely court.
For nothing makes sense, and nothing is right,
Lights will be on, but nothing is bright.
Darkness will cloud the most innocent perception,
Soon, to be left are tales of deception.
Empty pockets and empty lies,
Mirrors show insight to that we despise.
Fixations, and attractions to such focal points;
you almost impair any cognition.
And you’re standing there, like,
“Who is that?” and
“Why are they looking back?”
You consistently fear that something is wrong;
that nothing about you could ever be right.
If you stare too long they’ll see right inside you.
Redirect your glance; forceful.
Translucent to the gaze that dissects you.
Hastily walk away;
It was right.
You walked out of their life before they could walk out of yours.
And it’s satisfying.
For it was you who left this time,
and that’s what you had always promised; after.
Then you reminisce about that one time when they smiled at you,
and you smiled back.
When they walked towards you and you found your legs moving faster,
Faster than your mind could process.
— And nothing in God’s name could tell you what pulled you towards them,
but you knew that nothing, would pull you apart - and then, they do.
They take every inch of everything you had and pull it from limb to limb.
Stretched out every last piece of anything you ever shared and hung it on pegs for all to see.
No longer their muse, but their property; nothing about this is beautiful.
But you play along,
because becoming something is better than nothing at all;
and then you find yourself here.
Every day you wake up with something pressed tight against you;
You will never be that close to anybody again.
You sleep with a sheet on top of you on the hottest day of the year,
because you never want to be that vulnerable again.
Such native actions become defensive;
just the idea of shutting your eyes sends you into a fit of panic.
You tell people that you’ve never been a people person, but that was all you ever were. You were a person’s person, and you loved everything about it.
Then they took you, and they mangled you, and they mauled at you.
Burned through your heart like flaming glass and ripped a seam right up your chest.
They wrapped wires around your throat and garroted you till the only words that they found were those strong enough for them to hear; and weak enough for you to say.
Becoming embarrassed of ideas that resembled emotion;
You avoided the negativity that bound itself to the mere thought of repetition.
And when people, ask you Why?
Why you’re so fucked up?
All you can do, is lie.
All you can ever say is that you were born like this;
Because how else do you express that the one you loved most is the one who made you hate everything outside such confines?
…and that if you ever saw them again, that you wouldn’t hate them -
You would just sit there, and stare.
Repeating to your legs that they should not walk, but run - as far away as possible.
It seems that they, like your heart, missed the cue the first time round.
Heaven Cakes - Coconut Ladoo with a Nanaimo Cocoa Graham Crust; topped with white chocolate, milk chocolate and caramel drizzle
That belief that if we stare at something long enough, maybe we’ll see what we wish to.
What a hard head and a heavy heart must weigh to keep me level.
Constant fluctuations of what I am and what I should be,
who I ought to become to guarantee some form of success, or gratification.
I’m so vigilant at times that not even the simplest pleasures of life seem to surprise me.
Constant anticipation for those around me to screw up,
waiting almost eagerly to catch their mistakes and quarantine myself till I can collect all the pieces.
It’s been years since the last drop though, has it not?
Yet, here I am, instinctively second-guessing.
Awaiting the next time it’s going to happen, as if I could do anything to stop it.
God knows how high the walls were built last time,
and Crusade did he, all over me.
Inadequete were my feelings.
Inconsequential, my emotions.
Incessantly do I lay in dormancy;
And you, My Dear,
You will never have it all.
For it is still in pieces amongst the floor,
and patterned tile prints, will forever, keep it hidden.