PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

This is rather long. As always, read it or don't.



In these assorted heavy times, a guy my age generally has few options to comfort himself. All guys have masturbation, whether it be often or inconsistent, to rely on pretty much no matter what the situation. Depending on the kind of person you are, though, that generally becomes tiresome eventually, or maybe just boring. Drawing from your interests is really what these events call for. An artist may pick up on his creativity and avert some frustration into a wondrous piece of expression. A writer would often describe what he feels in some sort of symbolic, subtle, or just generally obnoxious way in poem, song, story or diary. Someone a little more physically active would just sweat it out in some kind of rigorous exercise or activity. A lot of people tend to just sleep off the hours. But, as I say this, I realize that I’m simply stating the obvious. There’s really nothing that I could say about the state of things with my relative lack of worldly experience. I’m sixteen years old, I’ve nearly failed every math class I’ve attended for three years running, I managed to go to summer school for physical education, and I have a tendency to praise the down-side of everything and just assume I’m right.



I kept thinking birds were chirping happily nearby as I marched forth to the kitchen. Odd, it seemed; birds generally aren’t very harmonious at two-thirty in the morning. I almost laughed aloud when I realized the backs of my shoes were making a whistling sound every time I stepped on the hardwood floors. If I take a full forward step, the tips of my shoes also squeak rather loudly. It reminded me of these work boots I had throughout last year. I couldn’t figure out why it would happen, but they could be heard from several yards away as I walked forth. My uncle even had the same exact pair, and rid himself of them as soon as he realized what kind of god-awful noises they generate. I ended up keeping mine for around a year and a half, before finally getting sick of that sickeningly unique sound they made. These days, I kind of miss them. Couldn’t really tell you why I do.



For a while I’ve wondered if chocolate is somehow addictive. I’m sure anything could be addictive when put up to bat in the right or wrong settings, but this had always confused me. Not only did I eat any kind of chocolate treat I could find, especially when upset or depressed, I would feel compelled to drink chocolate milk along with it. Until early last year, I hadn’t drunk much chocolate milk since I was old enough to sit in one of the high chairs at Frisch’s. My mom bought some of the low-fat kind so that we’d have something different in the fridge, and ever since then, I won’t let her go to the store without getting at least as much as she was willing to purchase. It’s sad when you feel that loyal to something consumable, especially if it’s a liquid. By now, I’d probably have some kind of breakdown if I were forced to give it up cold turkey.



I have a stuffed animal sitting atop my piece-of-shit futon. He’s over thirteen years old, and has been in my possession since Christmas Eve when I was three years of age: His name’s Rudy. He was one of those Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer dolls from a little over a decade back. His nose would light up, and a Christmas song would play whenever you squeezed his tail. I loved him from the moment he was given to me by my uncle, Jay. All the way home and throughout the next few weeks, he was always in my arms and a song was always ringing from him. Back then I never would’ve seen it coming, but, unfortunately, Dad got rather tired of his songs. He tore out the speaker through a zippered pocket on Rudy’s stomach, and ripped open his tail to deactivate the button inside. I couldn’t figure out why he did it. Rudy wasn’t singing to me anymore. Back then; I only had my bed-liner and Rudy to keep me company at night. I can recall clinging to him, absent-mindedly pressing the button in his tail, and leaning against my liner, the covers pulled over me and draped slightly over it as if to create some makeshift shelter within my bunk bed. I was scared to death of that top bunk, too. I had it for years upon years, and I always managed to fall asleep on the furthest edge of the bottom bunk, the only part that the top bunk didn’t loom over. I was a cowardly kid, yes indeed I was. Through all that, Rudy still comforted me as I watched the adults or older sibling roam through the darkened hallways and listened to the often-present theme of E.R., which was my mom’s favorite show way back when. Rudy still had that smile, as well as his Christmas hat and winter scarf. Beyond all of the changes that I underwent, Rudy was always there. I would take off his hat and scarf during the summer so that he could feel like he was a part of both of the seasons, it’s not like I disregarded him when it wasn’t Christmas. Eventually, I lost his Santa hat, and to this day I feel terrible about doing so. We’ve moved since then, and I’ll always wonder where that hat could be. I’m sixteen now, as I said before, and he stills rests atop my bed. I don’t really care how old I am, I’ll never be so grown-up that I can’t sleep with my childhood best friend. Half the time, I bring him down with me and hang onto him when I fall asleep. I hate leaving him up there during the chillier seasons, I always feel like he might be cold or lonely. He’s had his fair share of scrapes and tears as well, but mom’s always been a quick fix in these emergencies. I intend to keep Rudy with me until the day I die. In my will, I’m going to wish for my closest friend or family member to keep Rudy and care for him, and then eventually pass him down to someone else as I did. You may think of me as pathetic for feeling such devotion for a stuffed Rudolph doll, but I’d think of you as insane if you were to tell me you didn’t have a companion when you were a child. Because every kid should have a Rudy, every kid should be able to feel what I did way back then, and what I still do today. Everyone should have something that makes him or her feel genuinely happier no matter what’s falling down around and upon them. Everybody deserves their own little buddy to get them through the spikes that tend to rise. Everybody deserves something to cling to.



Super powers are what every normal person wishes for. The ability to raise storms with a snap of your fingers, a man who can control time by rolling his eyes. Could you imagine it? What if I could create electricity by rubbing two fingers together? What if your saliva could be highly volatile napalm? Could you imagine the possibilities if a single touch from a woman’s lips could heal any open wound? Therapists could settle your unstable feelings by raising their eyebrows. Can you see it? What would happen? I bet it’d be chaotic. Everybody’s seen the damage a single gunshot can do to a nation. I’m sure a wailing ball of flames could have even more of an impact. People seem to have this wild ability to take anything that they can benefit from, turn it the opposite way, and shove it somebody else’s ass for fun while someone nearby records their reaction. A man is gifted with the ability to increase the speed at which plants grow and prosper. You know as well as I do that he’d get a better offer, and instead of aiding at major farmsteads so that we can provide more food for those who really need it, he’d end up growing mounds and mounds of pot or something. I don’t classify all people this way, mind you. I’m sure that a woman who was given an immense intellect would do her best to solve some of the most controversial and desperate problems humans face. There’d just be several thousand others getting in her way on purpose. The earth as it turns seems to be on manual shutdown. And we, as its humble citizens, aren’t doing anything other than pushing it along with a devious grin upon our faces.



I miss the adventures we undertook behind my old street. When we were younger, many friends and I would make our journey down through the woods and slide downhill into the dried, dirty creek which we considered a second home. Those woods aided me so much as a child, and I didn’t really think it was so until recently. I faced many fears as Andrew and Steven dragged me back there almost daily. Discovering so many interesting things, seeing the rare though still present wildlife, running headfirst into what seemed like every cobweb possible. Best of all were the gatherings we used to have and the shelters we’d construct for ourselves. Eventually, we dubbed these structures “clubs”. A large oak tree fell one year during the winter. It was long dead, and a heavy night of wind of chill finally brought it down for the count. Within days we pounced upon it and began our newest project. Wooden planks were nailed to the topside of the tree to act as the roof, while sticks and brush were matted and bound together at all sides but one to close in the area we needed. We were actually able to create assorted rooms, which all had different purposes. The tree tumbled once or twice more when supporting branches snapped below it, but they never really had much of an impact on what we did. We even had a Christmas party in there on one late Christmas Eve night. Hot chocolate, hot dogs and hilarious stories were abundant, and we even had a gift exchange. Andrew was always the leader, and I was generally his right-hand man. Steven got the shit of everything back then, and now that I look back on it, I feel guilty for it and sorry for him. Ricky was often there, though he never got the hint that no one in my would-be clique had anything but dislike bottled up for him. Others were present often, such as Tony, Bobby, Jimmy or Sean. We were your average preteen children. Making homemade poisons out of mushrooms and assorted fungus, creating surprisingly effective perfume and gun-powder explosives, fashioning weapons out of sticks and stones, picking fights with younger and older kids across the creek, keeping track of where certain animals were at certain times, covering territory and conquering new areas for new and improved clubs, burning down whatever we didn’t feel belonged, and having a load of squirt-gun fights and wrestling matches. Back then I never felt as if I fit in, I wasn’t anywhere near as physical as the others, and there were often little tiffs between members of our group. But all was well and good, we felt fairly normal and secure, though our group was composed of many different people who would eventually go many different directions. I learned a lot back there. In my new house, everything feels incomplete. I don’t hear the raccoons rummaging around outside, the trees don’t make their aged, ache-filled noises against my windows, I never look out the window to see a bright, reflective gaze staring right back, and the neighbor’s dog never howls at the full moon here. Back then, those many things frightened me, but also let me know that I was home. Thunderstorms were crazy; the trees reflected the wind and tear that every one of them created. I actually have a backyard now, too. The old house was all downhill, with only an old, splinter-filled wooden play set to be seen standing tall, with one swing broken on one side. I remember this pit back there that was covered entirely with twigs and sticks and brush. I came up with this bullshit story that the previous owner had encountered a giant bear, and had shot him to death. The bear’s body had landed in that very spot, and had worn down the ground, since the gunmen had simply covered it up left it for the earth to take back. The funniest part of that story was that a lot of people actually believed it. I thought it was funny, anyway.