A Poet

[apoetwithasilentvoice]

Factory Molds

We’re hiding behind smiles and promises, behind ‘I love you’s and ‘How do you do’s. We’re breaking and crumbling and screaming so loud no one can hear, and we’re smiling. We’re smiling because that’s all we’ve been taught to do, not how to confide, or how to repair. Only how to fall apart behind walls of titanium while the world goes on. We’re taught not to be burdens, to stay silent, to not trouble others.

The little boys are taught that crying is bad, that showing weakness, feminity is bad. They grow up learning that the only emotions left for them to embrace are cold smiles and misplaced pride. They grow up calloused and bruised, locking everything away behind a front of masculinity and disguised terror.

The little girls are taught not to stand up, not to speak for themselves. They learn that they’re porcelain dolls with too wide smiles etched onto their faces while they scream and shout and cry and yell with the ferocity of a dying star. They grow up desiring perfection and waiting on others, wondering if their fragile fronts will ever break.

The little kids are taught that stupid questions are not to be tolerated, that the wonders of the imaginary are to be stowed away in the depths of the forgotten. They grow up, and as they do they get beaten down, told to sit down, to mind their place, to be the best, but not out of place. They learn what’s needed of them and how to provide, they learn that they’re just the next product of the assembly line, and any sign of imperfection will get them sent back to the factory.

We’re being told who to be and what to think. Told how to exist and why. We’re being taught we don’t matter unless we fit the mold. We’re being taught that we don’t understand anything, we’re little kids, with tiny minds and tiny, insignificant thoughts. Our opinions are irrelevant unless we grow up to be a white, straight, cisgender man. We’re taught that we are not worthy until they deem we are.

But they’re wrong.

We’re worth more than we’re led to believe. There’s more to us than cheer captain and star football player. There’s more to us than makeup and battle scars. There’s more to us than barbie dolls and football trophies. There’s so much more to us than that.

We’re filled to the brim with thoughts and ideas and love. We’re scribbling page after page of ways we’d like the world to change so that we can survive amidst this tidal wave of expectations. We’re screaming so loud about how we want to survive and exist that the world is struck deaf.

We cannot fill the mold that society stuffs us in. We cannot fit through the people-shaped holes that lead to success in the adult world. We are not perfect. We are striving to be amidst our self-destruction but we can’t.

So let’s create our own.

[poemswords]

[apoetwithasilentvoice]

Symmetric Satisfaction and Imperfect Reminders

There is a symmetric satisfaction In flowers with all their petals. In perfectly crafted tea cups,  In unmarked pumpkins, And pristine pages of old books.

But in everything else I find a familiar feeling Of something almost Indescribable.

In things like blurry photographs, And short, blunt pencils. In misspelled words found in magazines, And stains on a tie-dye shirt.

It reminds me that The world is full of living Breathing Interacting Beings.

That life finds a way to leave its mark in everything. That people find a way to prove they existed as humans And not robots with smiles and clear cut movements.

It somehow reminds me that we are not perfect, And though there is a symmetrical satisfaction found in perfection, There is a reminder of life in every imperfect, flawed, beautiful thing.

[apoetwithasilentvoice]

Inspire

People ask a lot more often now,

What do I want to do when I grow up?

They mean what job do I want, of course.

I do know, I think, what I want to do with my life. What I want to grow up to be. What I want to do for the rest of my days.

It’s not really a job though.

I want to inspire.

I want to be the person people imitate so that they can do well. I want to be the one that the boss calls in to show around the new person. I want to be the person on elementary career day that makes little kids want to follow in my footsteps. I want to be the one my old teachers talk about to their new classes, the ones they use to give a good example of a person.

But, aside from this, I do know what I want my job to be.

I want to teach.

I want to teach little kids how to love one another, and how to love themselves. I want to teach middle schoolers the meaning of respect, and when to know to give it and if they have earned it. I want to teach high schoolers that it’s okay to feel down, and that they can talk to people, talk to me, when the horrors of school become too much. I want to teach college students to teach, to pass on the knowledge I give them that I have gotten, and will get from all the teachers I’ve ever had, and ever will.

I want to teach middle or high school math. I want to take the problem children, the problem grade, and I want to show them that there is more to life than bad homework bad classes and bad grades and bad luck and bad. I want to use geometry to prove that there’s a lot of ways to get from start to finish, and while some take longer or have more steps than others, they still get there. I want to use algebra to show that getting the answers can be straightforward and methodical and calming.

I want to teach and I want to inspire.

That’s my answer.

[apoetwithasilentvoice]

The Stereotypes of Depression

I’m so tired of seeing the only depressed people on T.V. be bullied, be an outcast, be in a terrible home, be hidden.

Because in case you haven’t noticed, depression doesn’t only come from situation.

It comes from genetics too. It comes from being born with a brain wired the way it is. It comes from having parents with brains wired the way they are. It comes from having grandparents, great-grandparents, great-great-grandparents who have brains with chemical imbalances and normal lives.

I feel so much sympathy for those who are depressed because they are bullied, and ridiculed, and cast out, and made fun of. I feel for them and I hurt for them and I cry for them. But I feel for other depressed people too. The ones we don’t talk about.

So let’s talk about them.

Let’s talk about the kids who come from happy families and big houses who just want to go to sleep and never wake up. Let’s talk about the fact that they have friends, people they enjoy seeing, maybe a crush on that cute kid across the classroom. Let’s talk about how their brains cry to them that if they died everybody they know would miss them but that the urge to do so cries just a little bit louder.

Let’s talk about the women and men who have loving spouses and perfect jobs  who want to get in their cars and drive until they’re a mile past the shoreline. Let’s talk about how they have coworkers, family, lives that would disrupt so much if they were to go. Let’s talk about how they wake up, they go to work, they come home, they love, and do it all over until there’s no part of them that can get up enough energy to.

Let’s talk about how the idea that the only depressed people in the world are bullied, and outcasts, and alone hurts those who have better lives.

Because those kids, the ones with their eyes on that kid across the classroom, they feel and have no label. They have pain and dismiss it as teenage moodiness. They look to the internet and their family and their teachers and are shown and told that depression only comes to the less fortunate. That they can’t feel sad because look at all you’ve got. That because they have no logical reason to be sad, they must be spinning lies and seeking attention.

Because those wonderful adults who feel they could drop of the Earth and no one would care go to libraries and strangers and the wrong friends and are told that depression doesn’t affect those that have a nice house. That their pain is just in their heads so snap out of it. That there’s absolutely nothing wrong with them, because if you can’t see it it’s not real.

Because then, when they see no reason for their pain, it doesn’t just go away. People make reasons. Those kids tear apart their rooms and their relationships, they stop doing homework and start looking at the kitchen knives or erasers or matches differently. Those men and women stop showing up to work, and turn to alcohol and drugs and whatever they decide can make them feel better because this is why people are depressed, right?

It took a long time for me to see that I didn’t have to have bleeding arms and bullies to be depressed, that my mom has a chemical imbalance that causes her brain to be wired differently, act differently. That my brain has a chemical imbalance that makes me feel too sad for too long to just be about that grade. It took me a long time to look through the depression facts and stories on the internet to find the ones that said it was okay to not be starving and cold every night to have depression.

It took me even longer to go from finding to knowing to accepting.

I have the utmost sympathy for the kids who don’t have parents with happy lives, or only one parent, or none at all, who come from worse situations and have so much right to be depressed. My heart goes out to those aching grown-ups who have crumbling marriages with messy affairs or no job and bills piled on the counter, who have every right to be depressed. But my heart goes out also to those who don’t feel worthy of the word because they have good circumstances and good lives and bad brains.

Depression comes from so many things, be it circumstance or genetics, and I need people to know that I put that second cause in for a reason.

TL;DR: Depression comes from things that aren’t circumstance, that aren’t bad lives. They can come from parents and while it’s important to spread awareness of bullying and such, it is just as important to spread awareness that it is not the only cause of depression.

[apoetwithasilentvoice]

I Am Okay - Bi Realization

I was in kindergarten. I picked imperfect dandelions from the grass and gave him one everyday. I laughed with him. Played with him. Grew a kindergarten crush that went on much longer than I wished. (Much, much longer)

I was in first grade. Someone pushed someone in the sandbox and we fell on top of each other. Our faces were so close that everyone thought we kissed. We didn’t try too hard to deny the rumors. (I didn’t mind)

I was in second grade. We hunted for spider eggs in the playground. I sought, you smashed. Like ants and magnifying glasses but with spiders and sticks. Another one came that year too. He followed me around and told me his favorite color was purple when I wore it. He gave me two stuffed animals. (They hang by the window now)

I was in third grade. Boy Number Two and me were a couple in the way only eight year olds knew how to be. I would tilt my head so far back it would almost hurt and he would kiss my forehead. (I never knew how to feel about that)

I was in fourth grade. For the first time in my entire life, I was alone in my class without Boy Number One and Boy Number Two. We grew further apart. Things weren’t shared anymore. Spider eggs thrived on the playground. The stuffed animals sat forgotten in the back of my closet. Things fell apart. (We always had terrific timing)

I was in fifth grade. My boys were at another school, the one I’d moved from. I was really truly alone then. But I adapted. I found another boy and decided I liked him and when I didn’t know how to show that I pinched his arm until he hated me. (I skipped the friendship part, that’s where I went wrong)

I was in sixth grade. I had a friend with a crush. Her crush was alluring, in a way. He was far too different to even remind me of my boys and so I let myself forget them. Just a little bit. But I couldn’t do anything but be friends with him. Because I would not jeopardize what my friend had with him. I would not. (Maybe I should have)

I was in in seventh grade and for the first time, there was no boy. I had fading memories of my boys and constant reminders of how I failed to acknowledge my own feelings. But I had my best friend. And for the first time I didn’t need a boy. I just needed her. She, who I would talk down from nights of endless homework and into sleep. She, who I could go on for hours and hours about. She, who I would do so much for. My best friend. (Plus a little bit more)

I was in eighth grade. My best friend had confronted me. She asked me if at some point, I’d had a crush on her. I told her “at some point” had never ended. (It still hasn’t)

I’m in ninth grade now.

My best friend, my crush, my first girl love is gone. Off at some other high school getting all As and thinking about things not me.

I am here. Yesterday, I got asked out by my genderfluid friend. I said yes.

When I was in seventh grade, I learned it was okay to be away from my boys. I learned it was okay to like someone whose body is like mine. I learned it was okay to like both.

I learned I was okay.

[apoetwithasilentvoice]

There’s a pounding in my chest, A tremble in my lips, A stumble in my walk.

There’s a feeling, Not new, Not even close.

It’s the kind that, Sends sparks into my brain,  And ghosts into my skin.

The kind that makes me want to scream promises and whisper confessions.

It’s scary, Liking somebody.

Here’s to hoping.

Don’t ruin this.

[apoetwithasilentvoice]

Last night, I cheated a bit, Asked you, And didn’t reveal my answer.

(It might be you)

But, You cheat, Far more than I do, You let me ask and answer, And dodge the questions, With the speed of a child.

(I suppose that’s what we are though)

I try to say and think, It’s alright, But I want to know so much more, Than what you tell me.

(I’m sorry)

But, I know I have no right to want, Not after I looked when I wasn’t supposed to, Took more than I should have.

(I haven’t let myself look since)

But then, And don’t tell anyone, I plan to ask you, Legitimately.

(I hope you say yes)

[apoetwithasilentvoice]

This

What do I call us.  What do I call this, What label can I give, To this thing we have?

We’re almost friends, but not quite, Closer than siblings, but farther than enemies, Could be a thing, but never will.

It’s a game of trading and bartering, In which our currency is stories, And our products are memories.

We talk and everyday things are discovered, Opposites, Similarities.

There’s a list in my head that grows most days, California and North Carolina, Opposite, Piano and choir, Opposite, Fear of heights, Similarity.

Once I received a message, From a person I didn’t know, Saying that they liked my writing.

You talked me through, As I panicked with an excitement, I didn’t know I contained.

I remember words, “Feel accomplished” Among others you wrote, as we talked that night.

I also remember when you said internet friends, Didn’t count, And I wondered whether that applied to us.

I wonder now, What do you think of me, If we aren’t friends.

I wonder now, What do I call this, What do I call us.

[apoetwithasilentvoice]

Forgetting

This is what I live for, Long calls with my treasured, Spilling secrets and playing games, Discussing plans and thinking too little.

I forget sometimes, That we are not grown, That the uncaring attitudes are just the result of too much dismissal, That the dullness of our souls is not from years but from knowledge, That the monotonous voices and wanting to die jokes are the work of kids, That we are not adults in too short bodies.

We are little kids, Pre-teens, Teenagers.

We have crushes we don’t know how to express, And flaws in our planning from inexperience, And non-existent driver’s licenses and non-existent cars, And stumbles in our steps because our legs are too short for stairs, And a lot of learning to do.

I forget, A lot, Far too much, That we are not as mature as our sentences, That we are not as old as our actions tell us, That we are not wise elders, That we are children.

I’m glad though, That I still remember sometimes, That they remind me, Because it helps remind me that I too, Am just as small as them.

[apoetwithasilentvoice]

Just Kids

I look around, At my friends, Who smile and pretend, That they’re not terrified, Just like I am.

We’re all so fucking scared and it hurts so much.

It hurts to walk down the street, Because when someone strange walks behind, I see them speed up with me, Because we’re just kids, Female kids, Who run from what we’ve learned to be terrified of.

It hurts to see boyfriends kissing girlfriends, Because when I look at them I see sadness, I see pain in faces too young, Because we’re just kids, Longing kids, Who adorn our rooms with pride flags instead of posters.

It hurts to see people of color hurt, Because when the news has another story of deportation, I see worry for each other, Because we’re just kids, Worried kids, Who have last names and features of other places.

It hurts to exist and it hurts to live and it hurts to see and it hurts.

Because we’re just kids. Really, really, terrified kids.

Who have no fucking clue how anything works but we’re trying to understand and learn and avoid and fit into this world that terrifies us because we have to.

We have to.

[apoetwithasilentvoice]

The Lamppost

The lamppost that lived on the corner of Hart Drive knew too many stories, Stories of love and wonder and anger and sadness, Stories it wasn’t meant to know, but was around to experience.

If the lamppost could talk, It would tell of the most wonderful stories, Of first love, And new histories, And wanderlust.

If the lamppost could talk, It would tell of the saddest tales, Of break ups, And blackmails, And goodbyes.

If the lamppost could talk, It would tell its favorite story, Of the girl that smiled so often, And loved so easily.

The girl that walked past the lamppost, And with a heart of gold, Said hello every day.

The girl that bounced as she walked, Head up, Eyes bright.

The girl that grew up, And stayed, And still said hello every day.

If the lamppost could talk, It would tell its favorite story, And it could forget for a moment that it outlived the girl.

But lamppost weren’t meant to talk. And lampposts weren’t meant to forget.

[apoetwithasilentvoice]

Different

What I’ve discovered, From cars, And trains, Instead of planes, Is that the world is different, From the view of a window, Larger than a magazine.

Reality feels different, When traveling the country by automobile. Things that are,  Are not. And things that aren’t, Appear to be.

Houses by the road and far off, Once built so solidly of wooden planks, Now crumbling, Leaving what remains of the inside at the mercy of Mother Earth, Whether it be a boat, Or a bed, Or a person.

From the windows of a train, Things look smaller, So small that if I stuck my arm out really far, I could pick up the little cars and buildings, And play with them, As if we were children again, With our model trains and Lego people.

There are many trees to be seen, Fields to be captured in a picture, Birds whose songs I’ve yet to hear, Dark tunnels where graffiti piles up, The marks of one person after another.

By the train tracks, And the two lane highway, In front of my eyes, The world is different.

[apoetwithasilentvoice]

Regretting

Nobody ever talks about the things you won’t regret. It’s always, “Make good choices, you’ll regret the bad ones you make now.” But maybe we should talk about the ones we regret.

I regret caring so much about school that I ignored a fever and went anyway. I regret having a sleepover with people I no longer knew. I regret skipping lunch so that I could be in the writing club every Thursday.

These are the things I regret.

I don’t regret staying up late to watch the new season and being late to school the next day. I don’t regret writing letters of all the wrong sort and giving them to people of all the wrong sort. I don’t regret making friends with the sweetest girl who couldn’t help me after I’d helped her.

Because, for all my unfinished thinking in these moments, for all my prematurely acted on plans, I would never change what happened. Because, for all of my faults in these moments, I learned.

I learned to watch out for myself in the mornings, because no else would. I learned that what was in those letters wasn’t needed to be said. I learned to be careful in my friends, and what I did, and what I helped.

Every day, it’s drilled into me that I’m going to regret things when I’m older, that I’m going to regret learning lessons that are a part of growing up, that I’m going to regret all the things that made me feel more than a product. Every day, I’m told to live life to the fullest, but never make a bad decision, because you’ll regret it later.

I will, I do. I regret the bad I’ve done but I don’t pretend that I’ve never regretted the good either.

It’s okay to regret. Everyone does.

But regret the right things.

[apoetwithasilentvoice]

We’re Kids

We’re kids.

And we are kids that scream,

That shout,

That march.

And we are kids that protest.

So that the next kids,

The ones who are too young to know,

Or only a thought,

Or less,

Will never have to fear the sound of a slamming door,

Echoing in the hallways of their high school.

Will never have to worry about a text notification,

Being the difference between life and death.

Will never have to worry for their friends,

Who they know will throw themselves in front of any bullet.

Will never have to wonder,

“Am I Next?”

And we are kids that grew up,

Much too fast,

Much too suddenly,

Much too young.

And we are kids that speak,

For ourselves,

For our classmates,

For those who may be next,

And those who are no longer here.

Because some cannot,

Are too scared,

Are too young,

Are too unaware.

We’re kids.

[apoetwithasilentvoice]

Maybe

I wonder a lot, about the world’s perception of my work.

Maybe at this point everyone’s stopped reading. Maybe everyone’s decided my writings are to juvenile or false to be worth the read. Maybe all the world has decided that they have better things to do than listen to the fervent ramblings of a fourteen year old girl who’s just trying to make one little stain on the book that is the history of Us.

Or, maybe they haven’t. Maybe the entire world is listening and clinging to the words that tumble out of my mouth and mind and into my hands and my letters. Maybe each and every person lives for the day that I see them, saying hello and speaking with the charm I don’t possess. Maybe the world listens with rapt attention as I silently whisper all the things I want to say, but never do.

But in reality, I know it’s neither. There are a few, who read my writings. A few who look at the mess and decide that I’m worth a second of attention, if only because no one else has spared me that. There are a few who stumble upon my words in the ends of their reaches, feeling my emotions with me, rather than watching me feel from afar.

Sometimes, I wonder what the world thinks of my writings. And sometimes, I know.

[apoetwithasilentvoice]

No Longer Children

You look down on us, tell us we know nothing because we are younger and different. “You are mere children,” you sneer, “teenagers. You know nothing of this world you claim to be a part of.” You tell us to go back to our toys, our books, our fantasies. Tell us we are not made to meddle in the politics of our elders.

So listen now, and let me tell you something.

We stopped being children the moment our classmate, the kid we grew up with, the gunman walked into our schools and killed us.

The teenagers who once inhabited Parkland, Florida and went to Stoneman Douglas High School in the morning stopped being teenagers when Nikolas Cruz decided to murder 14 teenagers who will forever remain that way, and 3 teachers who will never see the light fade from their children’s eyes.

The teenagers who once felt safe at Marshall County High School no longer have that luxury. Not after Gabe Parker shot 20 of their classmates and killed 2 of them. Not after Gabe Parker walked into their lives and decided they weren’t worth anything.

The children from North Park Elementary who grew used to living without fear or terror became accustomed to it when their teacher’s husband walked in and unloaded on them, injuring a 9-year-old boy and murdering their 8-year-old friend Jonathan Martinez, their teacher Karen Smith, and himself, Cedric Anderson.

The victims of any school shooting stopped being children when they were murdered, forever young and forever dead. Those present for any school shootings stopped being children when they realized that this world, this time, was not meant for them to be such.

So call us children. Call us teenagers. Call us too young to know. And we’ll counter. And we’ll win. And we’ll make a world in which children can be children, because even if our chance was ripped from us in an unfair game of tug-of-war, their chance won’t be.