Author: destibear

In years long past, a sapling small,
Nurtured by hands in cloth so white,
They cared for me, both one and all,
To grow strong, my roots took flight.

But as I reached my adult grace,
Their presence faded day by day,
Yet in the stillness of this place,
I yearned for them, so far away.

In time, new folks did claim my home,
Yet Their quarrels marred the peaceful land,
Their greed and strife, like tempests, roamed,
Till driven out by a stronger hand.

One survivor sought refuge near,
Beneath my weathered, mellowed bark,
Was a short-lived respite, free of fear,
Amidst my figure, stiff and sharp.

Yet battle cries hung in the air,
The remained fled, breathless, in haste and dread,
Until an arrow struck, a heart laid bare,
At my roots, the fallen lay dead.

The wars’ aftermath, a bitter fate,
My fellow trees and I laid low,
As stumps, we bore a heavy weight,
In silence, we watched life’s ebb and flow.

Children’s laughter, echoes sweet,
Around my base, where friendships bloom,
Yet, I can’t hear, can’t see, can’t greet,
Only bear their weight in this silent gloom.

I’m the sand in the top of an hourglass, fading away until I’m no longer there. My friends say I’ll make it through, that I’ll definitely survive this plague eating away at me for months. I don’t believe them. I am getting smaller and smaller. No matter what I do, nothing that used to make me happy hits the same anymore. Music, video games, reading… It just feels like a waste of time. I don’t know where I want to be in 2 years from now, it just seems so wrong that I’ll get that far. Whatever I do, I just get sucked into this wormhole of boredom and longing for something new. All my real life friends that I thought knew me haven’t seen me in months. I lost everyone I cared about, I’ve lost my drive and everything just feels bland. I don’t really know what I’ll do to get out of this, but I hope my only out isn’t the one that many people immediately think of.
“You’ll make it through.”
“You can get your life together.”
“You are valued and people care about you.”
“We will always be there for you.”
I really hope so, friends.

It’s an incomplete desire for something I’ve never had. “A part of my heart lives in the work I’ve made,” they say. I look down at the fraction of my soul I have strangled in my hands.
There is something so gentle yet grueling yet possessive yet messy yet rewarding about poetry. The need, the want, the love, all of the strength and devotion borne from held-back desperation.
Anxiety feels like anticipation, feels like hunger, feels like something resting against my ribs, taking a breath before it sinks its teeth—turns to fear.
It’s something so strange to me, hearing people say, “I dance the line between good and evil”, because I know that they do not. When they say that, they do not mean that they are on the line between good and evil, but that they want to do whatever they’d like with no consequences, no attachment. No, the ones who truly understand are the ones who know that there is no line.

Men don’t cry. We slip from the comfort of our own beds, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out, and it all still hurts; from the moment we rise, until the skies shift to darkness; where we can sit on the edge of our beds, and breathe in, and breathe out. We were always told to hide it all, underneath clenched jaws and trembling little fists. To go through schoolyards and dinner tables; with darkened eyes and plastic hearts forced to be made of stone. A generation of little boys in suits and ties, grieving something we never had, at the edge of a burial ground; of a childhood spent in buried aches. All those “look me in the eyes when I talk,” all those “boys don’t cry”, all those words that all men oddly share like the ones before them; turned into unwanted rituals for a silent yet violent manhood, an open door to a madhouse made of tempered glass, where we all sit together yet sit alone, with clenched jaws and wrinkly, calloused fists, wishing for something we lived yet never felt, a childhood or a hug; things we never had, yet always miss.

The water was silent as I stepped off the gangway in Roatán Honduras. The waves feebly grabbed at the boat’s sides with no energy left to fight. The sun had a warm, friendly smile compared to the cold days at sea. As I board the tiny bus I listen to the guide give us the facts. As The bus bumps along the rough cobblestone streets, I glance at the houses that line the street. They look worn from age, one lonesome sigh from collapse.
Poverty hits Roatán hard. I learn my visit is essential for the survival of these people. I watch as a 6-year-old boy roams the street with bracelets, hoping a stray tourist will buy them. I learn Most children stop going to school because they must start providing for their families. Although it is heart-wrenching I realize that you can’t take small things for granted. Going to school won’t kill you. Walking a mile, won’t hurt you. Instead, I take it as a lesson to try harder and be grateful for what I have. It makes me wonder what would have come of me if I had stayed in Guatemala, a poor country much like this one.

936 students, 51 teachers, and 1 active shooter. Everyone sent their last text, then everything went dark. Separated from my friends, I sat crouched on a cold toilet of an empty bathroom. 1, 2, 3, and on I counted until officers pulled out 46 teachers, 933 students, and 1 active shooter. I found my friends Clara, Tyler, and Eddie before going home. The loud echoes of the bullets ricocheting off the stone walls played over and over. They played as I slept, ate, and as I stepped onto campus a few days later. I talked with Clara, Tyler, and Eddie at lunch. Clara complained about a pounding pain in her head, Tyler’s ribs were bruised from practice, and Eddie’s stomach bothered him so much he left early. People stared and whispered as we spoke, but they were overpowered by my friends’ complaints. Complaints and cries and then the obituary. It had been 4 days since we lost 5 teachers and 6 students. “ Wait, 6 students? We lost 3, not 6.” I said out loud to 3 empty chairs in front of me. A girl a table down saw the paper in my hand. “Told you she’d figure it out.”

Like a cat it pesters you when you need it to leave,
But it is nowhere to be found when it’s all you desire.
It’s supposed to give you energy, but it’s like a mailman that doesn’t know your address,
So I know nothing except weariness.
Like a knight without armor it fights a losing battle against grogginess,
And I only speak sentences formed between yawns.
It helps your productivity,
But I have too much work to indulge in relaxation.
It helps you focus,
But my mind is too scattered in thought to settle down.
I long to doze off all day,
But spend an eternity in bed trying to keep my eyes shut.
When I finally do fall into its warm pool of stillness and peace,
My mind entertaining itself with absurd movie-like dreams.
I am abruptly pulled out by the sound of my alarm,
Cold and dripping.
Trying my hardest and failing to go back to that state of serenity.
Now I must live another day of drowsiness tantalized by the thought of rest.

A sponge of inherited behaviors sat quietly on the frigid bathroom floor, staring into the dark hole of water where her meals would be quickly spat up to avoid digestion. She sat there, building the courage to cram her weak fingers down her throat so that she could force out her small salad dinner. She knew it would disappoint her family if they knew what she was doing. She turned on the fan to drown out the noise.
For years she sat on the bathroom floor and observed as her mother pinched at her stomach and measured her waist with her fingers as she got ready for work. Her father would sit her down, poke and pinch her with his words. The words “fat” and “chubby” wrapped around her body like thorny vines and pierced her skin. Her father’s words and her mother’s self-hatred would blossom her brain into a warzone. The spiked vines would wrap around her waist and squeeze tightly. So every night after dinner, she would try her hardest to loosen the evil, trailing plants from her body. Shoving her fingers down her throat, she cried tears of joy as the vines untightened.

Although winter has settled in, I like to imagine that the asphalt still holds the summer’s heat. Driving home on sunny days I like to crank the heater and pretend that it’s the summer sun beating through my windows. As I drive, my mind tends to turn to the future. In nine months I’ll be eighteen, and in a little, over a year I’ll be in college. As Hero Way turns into Nameless I see the landscape with new eyes. The rolling hills of the Texas hill country flow by my windows as I drive, an endless sea of cedar trees and long yellow grass. I notice how the tips of the cedar needles are a brighter green than the rest of the tree, and that grass fades from yellow at the tips, to orange, to a dusty brown base. The colleges that I like the best are in faraway cold states. Someday soon I will no longer experience the long, oven-hot summers that I have grown to love. The sharp scent of cedar will no longer float in sun-scorched air. I can only hope that I can find the beauty in unfamiliar, long, icy winters.

I used to think I was crazy,
I’d wake up in the morning and pull the hair from my scalp
Because it wasn’t lying down properly.
I’d create a tornado in my room
Because I didn’t know what to wear.
Everything was either too tight,
Or itchy,
Or hot,
and God why doesn’t anything fit.
I used to think I was crazy
Because I would go to bed hungry.
Because the best time to lose
Is when you can’t feel it.
I used to think I was crazy
I kept my mouth shut in class
Because a boy once told me I talked too much
and that I was loud.
So I started writing poetry,
I used it as a silent scream,
A way to say what I couldn’t.
I’d read the same ones over and over again at night,
They’d play in a constant loop in my head.
And eventually I started reading these poems to my mother,
I read to her about the sad and happy,
About grief, and love, and loss.
I asked her if she thought I was crazy,
She said no
You’re just a woman.