Author: JeffreyD

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.

Parachutes are the screams of your mother vocalizing
“Clean yo damn room” as you stare at your grey dust-layered desk.
A parachute is a slimy dollop of tobacco that Coach D-Bag spit on your
Face for being “ too damn slow”.
A parachute is your brain signaling you to stop
Punching your wall out of anger because you’re annoyed at life.

Parachutes are the horrifying but joyous cries of your mother when she
Found out you were going to be born.
Parachutes are your mother’s tiresome hands guiding you through childhood
To keep you away from drugs and alcohol.
Parachutes are the Riddell helmets that save you from Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy.

Parachutes are your first love’s arms wrapped around you in Cinemark.
Parachutes are oxygen tanks for firefighters after inhaling soot and debris.
Parachutes are the steady hands of Neurosurgeons performing Craniotomies.
A Parachute is Jesus Christ suffering on the Cross for your sins.

Parachutes are heroes that save us from the atmosphere.
Parachutes slow us down so we don’t crash land.
In times of great depression when you’re freefalling around Earth
Questioning your purpose, just remember
Parachutes want you to live.

The Reality of the A student
A Greek tragedy lived by thousands of the damned
They’re caged by an addiction
of papers with hundreds
And a fixation for perfection

The Reality of the A student
Is that they’ll never be perfect
As humans commonly are not
So they strive for an impossible goal
Knowing their efforts are futile

The Reality of the A student
They they are cursed with brains
Prohibited to feel, for the mind is always thinking
Intellect is a curse
When it’s all you are

The Reality of the A student
Though this drug gives them purpose
They would throw it all away
For a chance to be content
To be normal and free

Unfortunately they are addicted
Unfortunately they are human
Unfortunately they are cursed with intellect
Unfortunately they want to be happy
Unfortunately they don’t want to be the A student

But the reality of the A student
The reality of being Alexis Juarez-Delgado
Is that happiness isn’t made for them
For the addiction of being an A student is their purpose
And without purpose, how should I expect to live?

there is a star somewhere,
named after what we created together.

the moon that night was controlled by my smile
so i’m sorry to all the cities i’ve flooded
i didn’t mean to make this a big thing
but i was willing when we met
your comforting words gave me the will to stay a little bit longer

when i think about us,
i think about how galaxies are created in the blink of an eye
i was made stardust all because you were good to me

a year is a long time.
about fifty weeks.
three hundred sixty-five days (three hundred sixty-six if it’s a leap year).
five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes.
far too many seconds.

a year is a long time.
school days are long and wearisome.
students dragging themselves to reach may.
when summer finally comes around, the day seems shorter even though the sun is out longer.
quickly the days blow away.
we scramble for more time away from equations and falling leaves, yet there is an excitement for what is to come in the fall.

a year is a long time until it isn’t.
bad news hits. a shadow is cast over the last few bright days of summer.
time is ticking away. the diagnosis is a death sentence.
immediately treatment starts.

a year is a short time.
we visit every day. we come with stories about the school day.
you smile but the wear and tear is shown on your face.
meanwhile, the hope on our faces falls ever so slowly.
treatment fails. our days together are limited.
time is an impeding countdown, just waiting for the clock to reach zero.

i am from gas station rest stops
that fueled the hunk of metal which took me anywhere my traveling mind wandered
i am from cramped spaces in an overcrowded backseat
filled with cousins i wasn’t fond of
i am from landscapes i’d never seen before across the country
that i was so blessed to be able to visit
all because of my gracious grandparents
who loved me more than i knew

i am from the house on the corner
that was suddenly so far from the grandparents that looked after
me and my wanderlust heart
i am from the shadows,
not knowing where i belong
i am from a quiet voice
that doesn’t know when or how to speak out

i am from an explosion
of tears and screams released when everyone least expected
i am from questionable stares and unsettling talks
with strangers in an unknown room
i am from being pushed away and kept quiet
by people who were supposed to be caring for me
and only heard me when i cried out for them
but now
i am from people who love me
care for me like no other
see me for me, no matter how difficult

It’s midafternoon. The sun shines ferociously from above as I make my way home from a pleasant day at the beach. The sidewalk floods full of people despite the recent disappearances. There’s a man in a gray suit and long slacks, despite the sweltering summer heat, who catches my eye. It’s not so much his suit I’m interested in, it’s his shadow. When he raises his hand up to catch a paper flowing in the wind, his shadow lifts its foot. Now I’m sure I’m only seeing things but I follow him nonetheless. The man continues to walk forward and occasionally glances over his shoulder almost as if he knows I’m trailing behind. I stare so intently at his shadow now, waiting for it to move differently than its maker, so much so that I run into the man’s back. He stops dead in his tracks; a smile forms on his face. Without warning, I feel something on my leg. I look down and see the shadow’s dark ghostly hands rise from the sidewalk and wrap around my ankles. Swoosh. Darkness. Now I, the shadow, follow the man, waiting for the next curious passerby to add to my collection.