Ask and answer

I often ask myself silly questions I would not dare bring up to anyone else.

Thing that make me blush or smile. Things that make me cry awhile.

I ask myself these things because they help me feel alive.

For awhile I have the will to survive.

What kind of future will she have?

Will I be there or will I be dead?

How can I make her happy?

How will she feel if I hold her on my lap, even when she is 20?

I ask myself because I can.

I ask myself so that I may continue till the end.

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Letters to a Father

I can no longer remember your face.

When I was younger you where there. Not always there┬ábut a little thought in the back of my mind. I HATED how you came around when you felt like it. I know you told me it was my moms fault you weren’t constant, but till this day I do not believe that to be fact.

Just like you said how you number never changed, nor did my grandmothers, you could have called her any day. Found out where we where and took us away. Do you know how much pain we went through?

No, I guess not since you never bothered with us. Just made excuse after excuse.

Dear Dad , I do not remember you. I do bot remember your voice, your smile, your eyes. I Do remember your anger and your lies.

I guess it is my fault I hold on to such a grudge but I made the mistakes of my mother and laid with someone I didn’t love.

Now I have a daughters whose father she don’t know. She don’t know his face, his eyes, the way he smiles over silly things. No all she remembers is the pain of him never being around.

Broken promise after promise.

Sounds familiar to me now.

Dear Dad, I hate you.

But I guess you knew that.

Or maybe you didn’t because you delude yourself into thinking I was never created. I am just a figment of your demented imagination.

Do you know my favorite color or my favorite song? Do you remember my best friends name or what first made us get along? I told you all this a million times but did you listen?

I wish you had left me spattered on the bed sheets but then I wouldn’t have my baby girl.

Dear Fuckbutt, I despise you.

How dare you do her like he do. She deserves so much better than some well wishes. She fucking deserves her fathers kisses. I do not need no imagined truths. Tell her what you post online, don’t you know she needs you???

Wrote a letter to my father but inside I meant you.

Dearest Papa

Dearesr PaPa,

Do you even miss me? I spend most of my days wishing all is well for…but I can’t seem to bring myself to finish that half truth.

I don’t wish you well I wish you hell.

You left me when I needed you. No, I take that back.

To be fair, you were never truly there. Just a shadow of what could be. Of what should be.

Dearest papa, do you know how much I have cried.

Bet you would care if I drowned in my tears at night.

I do try, I truly do, to wish you well in your days.

A random status update

I have never been good at dealing with the death of a loved one. I have often found myself to be the only person openly crying at funerals. As everyone is floating around and celebrating, I was always the one calming talking to the body as though they could still hear me. The one everyone felt that needed to baby due to my delicate nature. 

It is funny though cause I actually celebrate death. I do not pretend to be happy with a passing. Instead I let myself feel sad. I do not hade behind perfect smile and tell everyone thanks for coming. No I kneel and allow the person I have lost know I love and will always remember them. I celebrate death once I have grieved.

Not to say smiles or laughter at a funeral should not happen cause they should. I just don’t do it. 

I am not very religious, but despite how some of my poems may seem, I love religion of all kinds. Including Christianity.  I may not follow all the teachings but I do not find it horrible. 

So I can understand how something that is something  we need to sing about. 

I am just quieter…..

Still….

I wish people would stop seeing my tears as a weakness. I wish they would talk to me. Let me tell them that sure I am crying, but I will be on in time. 

Why do people hide death from me? Treat like a little flower who needs to be protected? Has anyone read my poems and stories??? Seriously, I will be ok. Just give me time. Let me vent, let me grieve in my own way. 

Blocked Heart

In my home there is a closet that houses the true me. The side not many see for fear that they will leave. Inside this closet, so tall and dark, lies a chest where I have locked up my heart. I pass it often to and hear the beating within. I ignore so my true self won’t win. See it wants out. It is not afraid. It wants to show the world who I truly am. I fight everyday, trying to keep it all inside. Making sure the key is always in my sight. One day I got distracted and someone wheedled themselves in. Took my heart from me and tried to keep it with them. I tried to fight them hurt them in every way I could. But they where strong and never gave up. They say my true self and never judged. Oh did it hurt, to be this bare. To have someone know, to have them always there. Always watching, always listening, always talking, so much noise. I felt like I lost a life I never allowed myself to leave. The true me was content though; my heart was loved. My body may have felt shamed but my heart was loved.

To this very day I fight them. I want it back, while I am happy, I still crave the hate. It is easier to bear. Easier than dealing with this unknown love and having someone there.

Life as a Poster Child

Ever pay attention to those posters in your doctor’s office and say, “Glad that person isn’t me!”, Or , “Wow that’s sad, I should Facebook that”.

You never really stop to think if that person is truly like you. They could be talking about starving children in Africa, and all of a sudden you forget you are in that office due to an eating disorder, brought on from constant malnutrition as a child.

You forget it all because they seem worse off . You suddenly have your crap together, despite dying inside, because someone on that poster is suffering.

You will never see yourself as that child. Never see yourself hunched over in pain with overly watered eyes. Will never see yourself covered in bruises, crying in a dark corner as someone yells at you…again…

You will never see your scars as you stare at the poster of the child with scars on Their wrist.

You won’t see it because they are suffering more.

You will strive to get better, sure, but there is always someone out there that has it worse than you do.

It is like you invalidate what to have been through. Because you are…

It is easy to care about those poster kids. So why can’t we care about ourselves?

See, I am a poster child for mental health. Not the good kind but the one where the homeless kid in a beany (why are they always wearing beanies) is sitting on a bus stop (again why always a bus stop) looking at the people around them with vacant eyes. I am that girl ( cause it’s nearly always a female in these posters) who is homeless and clutching the hand of child. A child who may or may not be crying (usually not crying because that defeats the purpose of the unhappy mother. Always put lost mother next to somewhat better dressed and vacant eyed child. There lies the money-maker). 

Always surrounded by those who are better off.

In some shots she is smiling with her child and others they stand as if they are drones.

I am that poster child who is holding out a broken bowl for food

I am that child who covers their bandaged wrist.

I am that mother whom begs on the street corner for help.

I am them and I still believe that their suffering matter more than mine ever will.

I am a poster child who can’t help but view the posters of others and try to figure out the best ways to help them.

I know what my picture means, I will not ignore it, but at times I find myself forgetting all about it.
My suffering is no where equal to that of others.

My favorite poster to ignore is that of a single mom. Mainly cause there are not a lot of posters on the subject. At least not many attempting to seek help. 

Just success stories of those who rose up from the life given to them and raised children who is turn where successful. 

The “Thanks mom, Thanks dad” posters.

The ones littered around some community colleges.

They are there though, go, take a look. You are bound to find at least one or two posters, maybe just a pamphlet, stating something about single parents support-group. If you don’t find one I will make you a special gold star made of real gold and the tears of a very hangry dragon. A very hungry…very angry…dragon.

It is my favorite to ignore because I tell people that being a single parent isn’t that bad all the time. I tell them that I enjoy the solitude. That I am perfectly fine being single and alone. I like eating pizza with just a toddler. I hate going on dates anyways. That it eventually gets easier to tune out the most basic cartoon noises.

It is not that bad.

But it is.

It is that bad.

But I won’t tell anyone why. I won’t tell them that some days I go into my room and cry. How there are days when I washing the dishes and have to fight the urge to “accidentally” slice open my arm. I will never tell them of the days I resent my child. Of those times when I want to run away. See I can’t tell them that I go days without adult interaction and the reason I am so silent is because I forgot how to talk to people my age. I can’t tell them how my daughter is my best friend. They would think I was strange but she is the one person who has never left me. She has never abandoned me to the wolves and instead tells that I am the best person ever.

I talk to people online. They keep me insane more than they know.

If I died do you know how long my child would sit here alone? Days…maybe even weeks before someone started to worry about us. Even then it would be because I haven’t posted a video or picture of her.

I am the Poster child of a single mom.

But it is one I will greatly ignore. I will share pictures to the world about how single parenting can be fun. Every once in a while I will reach out for help.  Only rarely though.

I will lie to the best of them but am also willing to help others in the end. Other single mothers that is. The posters always meant more to me then my very own. I will seek help, I will not ignore, but I will invalidate my own poster for the better of others.

Cause I am the perfect poster child of a broken home.

Post haste with paper and paste.

What is it like before it ends? Moments filled with laughter and pain? Is it worth it?

I think it is.

I was created to a punching bag, something meant to be destory all in the name of fun. Do not pity me though, I am ok with this.

I knew the moment I was born that I was meant to die this way.

I remember the smile on my  creaters face. 

Their pride was addictive. Held together with paper and glue; I never thought I amounted to much. Cheaply made but they where proud anyways.

The exciment, the laughter, easy to forget the pain.

It took awhile for them to find me. The perfect family to want me. The feel as the child held me in their arms. I don’t think I will ever forget it. 

The car ride home was the  scariest part. while the child was happy to have me they still worried. What if their friends didn’t like me? What if I wasn’t enough? Where they to old to love me?

I remember how their  parents just laughed, “It will be ok”.

The child grasped me closer nodding but still confused. 

I wanted nothing more then to comfort them. Even though I knew my fate I still wanted them to smile. 

When we had gotten to their home the child gently walked in and placed me on the counter. Running their hands along my face and tail. Leaving warm trails along my side. 

The parents walked up;  bowls of candy in each hand. 

I won’t lie, I was afriad. I wished I had the abilty to run at that moment. I knew what would happen. I was proud  but still… the pain wasn’t something I looked forward too. 

They were gentle though. Not to rough as the filled me to the brim. Still I shook (or at least I think I did).

The child  stood by me the whole time though. Reminded me off my creater with how serene he was. Even when faced with something difficult and new, they stayed brave. In the end it made even me feel brave. 

Once the parents were done they walked away. I stayed that way for sometime before someone came for me. They gently carried me outside and tied me to a nearby tree. To me it seemed to high but I know the little ones would it perfect so I had no complaints really. It took awhile longer for people to arrive. As they did I made sure to watch and get an understanding of the guest. The kid in blue looked like he packed a punch while the boy with the cornflower hair seemed timid and thoughtful. Many more beside them ran inside. Each with their own story, their own personality, their own power. 

I was still in control though, I got to choose which one had the honor of taking my life. 

To others it  seem like a grave power to have but I was ok with it. Proud even; I was in control of my own destiny.  How many others could say that? 

As the final hour crawled closer I sat and watched. The children played merrily as the adults rushed around stopping little spats and encouraging fun. 

It was all so exciting.  I watch as the little timid boy, the oddest in the bunch of hyper children, stand by himself. Ignoring even the young birthdays boys attempts to play. At first I felt pity for him but then I realized that he was truly enhoying himself. Sure it wasn’t like the other little boys but the soft smile on his face allowed me to see that he took pleasure it watching the lives of others. 

This little boy reminded me much of myself. Watching from the outside. As carefree as can be, yet thoughtful. 

I decided that he would be the one to kill me. 

A/N 

I was never one for happy stories but this is the closest I have ever gotten to one. I have decided to not show the finishing moments because we all know how that goes. Instead i wanted to show the pinatas viewpoint from creation to moments before it is destroyed. 

If it had feeling would it be ok with it being broken? I like to think it would. It would be bringing joy to children. Yes it will hurt but life is never easy. This was a special pinata and it felt looked because it was. I remember always wanting one as a kid. I loved going to others peoples parties and having fun especailly with this ginat paper mache madness come out. These words of art that will be destroyed in the end but is well loved beforehand. 

How many of us has had one and held it closely to our hearts because we felt it was the best thing ever. The excited smiles and giggles. 

Even though it is the parents and other kids who decide who is lucky enough to break the pinata I felt that it was best to leave it up to the one who will be broken. It was always interesting how much effort it took to break one and how sometimes it seemed to take forever and others it didn’t take as long. Almost like the person who broke it was choosen. 
I found this via google and think I may keep doing this.