Monday, November 19, 2007
I sit and stare out the window of my room,
watching showers of gold dance
towards inevitable death upon the angry shadows
of man-made concrete malevolence.
Torrents of life fly through the air,
soil torn from peaceful slumber by destruction.
Dead and dying fingers of trees more aged than time
litter the restless path walked by troubled youth.
Trees moan in agony as they tilt and topple,
Broken illusions lie side by side
with torn hearts and twisted dreams
upon the pavement, given no more thought
than the discarded cans and bottles
from foolish attempts at forced merriness.
Sorrow and solitude are masked by false gaiety;
the rush of long sought independence
clouds reason and forethought.
Among the forest carcass, callously raped and demolished,
walls of change are built.
Dreams and hopes will dwell in these halls,
some to grow, some to die, some to fade away and be forgotten.
Youth comes to learn of life, yet still oblivious to the death
surrounding that they call home.
I watch out my window, wallowing in the scent of leaves
changing from green to gold, seeing knowledge ripen
to foolishness, then to fade again to realization
of how little knowledge there is.
Much can be learned
from a window, safe behind the glass, without having to risk
the terrors of life.
Safe in my walls of knowledge, secure
in my invulnerability, I sit and watch.
I turn and stand,
stepping out the door.
Friday, October 12, 2007
My Point? (I know, about time right?) I somehow manage to make it through my day without feeling the need to preach to everyone around me about these things. I've seen countless images of models in latex nazi uniforms, gas masks, simulated gas chambers.. I've seen the Nazi flag paraded around naked bodies like a red carpet evening gown. I made it through years of school being called a Nazi simply because I had lived in Germany, and was part German. Yet, somehow, I managed to swallow all of this with a grain of salt and continue to live my life.
My father is a retired, disabled American Army Veteran. He was enlisted for 25 years, and retired as a Sergeant First Class. I spent my entire childhood until I was 18 living on various military bases. I still worry and cry over friends that are in the middle east right now. You cut me, I bleed red blood that was born on a military base. I'm very proud to be an Army brat, the eldest child of a soldier who did what he could to make this world better for me and my siblings.
I put up with military bashing, anti-military protests. I put up with tacky girls wearing camouflage bikinis and fake army boots for porn ads and Playboy. I keep my mouth shut when the "thugsters" and "homies" walk around in baggy uniform pants. I kept myself from throwing heavy things at the tv when dog tags traditionally used so that if a soldier died in combat, his body could be sent home to his family started becoming a new source of "bling".
If I can make it through a day without killing someone for wearing or doing something I find personally offensive, so can you. Get over yourselves people. If you're really offended by something that has happened in the past, get off your ass and do something to make sure it doesn't happen again in the future.
Monday, September 24, 2007
just staring at the last drops in the bottle.
There's only a few left,
barely enough to cover the bottom of the glass.
Just enough to coat my throat,
a burning that slowly drips its way down.
The heat finally loosens the knot,
the dark, hard lump of pain I've been drinking away.
I reach across the table, pouring myself another from a fresh bottle.
Each sip burns a scar,
branding my heart with the same pain I drown in.
One sip for each heartache,
a salute to every tear I've cried.
One more for that smile,
charming, childish, and captivating every single time.
Another for that laugh,
that warm, enticing sound that haunts me.
Hell, here's one for those eyes,
stormy skies, and grey clouds with silver linings.
Add another for that skin,
tasting of summer dew and smelling like rain.
A thousand thoughts of love,
burned into my heart and drowning me in hurt.
A few more sips,
just a few more, and it won't hurt anymore, right?
I just want it to go away,
one more should do it,
chase that ghost away, and dull the laughter.
It's not really making it go away,
it'll be waiting for me when I sober up.
Another glass, just one more,
back to the bottom of the bottle again.
One drop left for each tear,
falling down my cheeks and mixing in the glass.
Now I'm just sitting here,
staring at the bottom of the bottle.
A few drops swirling, dancing;
I stand up and walk a way.
There's a few drops, just a few left in the bottle,
a few tears left to cry.
Natalie Gibson (c) 2005
*Dedicated to someone .. to a broken heart that was dead, then beat, then died again*