A/N Here is the edited and hopefully better poem.
I'm just a kid.
So many say I'm older.
And the hurt they've given me has made me wiser.
But a four year old has more of a clue
As to how their mind works than I do.
Those lucky kids, though, all so young.
I wonder what it's like for them.
The outside world still lets them be.
So inside their minds they must be free.
Their minds must be so pure,
So fertile,
So fruitful,
So free.
Flowers must bloom there under open air,
And green smells must flow through that place.
But when I sit down in that cushiony chair,
And watch my therapist watch me from there,
And when I look into my mind
To find the true human inside,
I step inward and bam!
The wind pulls me, straight off the bat.
It's rushing red-orange taints
That pure redness of the sky,
A sky that doesn't seem to sit very high,
With streaks of pale fake red,
To light to be strong, to strong to be ignored.
But just over there-
My feet begin to slip.
There's no footing on this barren slate.
The grey and red dust flies,
Caught by the cross breeze.
Pulling holes through my thighs.
Pulling at my feet.
Pulling me from my course.
But if you could just see where my finger is-
I get why you don't want to turn towards where I point.
The blurring lines carry you away,
And this dust pricks at your eyes.
I know it gets to mine.
But if you would only look,
just over there,
You could see where I'm headed.
Sort of
It's that thin outline,
That ghostly figure behind the storm.
My true form just out of reach
It stands aloof, nearly 5'4" feet tall,
And it doesn't seem to mind the labels at all.
You see it's just over there-
But now the wind brings back its pace,
And outside voices fill the empty space.
All the words my ears have heard.
They whine and whistle with the wind, and scream with voices of malice.
They scream the name they know me by,
And shout cruel words to make me cry,
Yet still, if you can, see that figure, still standing like a man.
Well that's just my mind.
I wonder what your's is like.
Is it dark or is it light?
Does the wind spread dandelion seeds,
Or does it tear down mighty trees?
Is that figure in your mind
A close friend of yours or a distant stranger?
Is walking down the paths of memory
A simple stroll, or down right agony?
Now as I stand from that cushiony chair
And watch my therapist watch me there.
I look into faces once more and wonder.
Do they travel within their minds as well?
Does their mind fight them as well?
Do they claw their ways to themselves as well?
Do they have to fight to understand themselves as well?
Or did they get it easy?
Does anyone else understand?
It is this just me?
Can anyone else understand?
Or is this just me?
Is this only human?
Or is this just me?
