There's a wall of glass between us,
you can't see me
or hear me screaming
fighting for just one moment of your attention.
Most of my life,
those who were important to me
never knew I was a person -
I was just an object to be used then ignored.
I'm tired of being lonely.
What's the point of beating
on the glass when
all I'm doing is getting my hands bloody?
You never saw me anyway.
You only acknowledged my existence
when you needed something.
My shame is that I allowed it to happen.
Stinkbumps the Wonder Boy: The rants, ravings and ramblings of a lunatic, overachieving single mom.
4 comments:
Um...this is heart-wrenchingly depressing, Jenn! Is this YOURS? And, if so: with no explanation, it reads rather like a cry for help! What's up?
Yes, it's mine. Not a cry for help per se, just my sadness, frustration and aggravation at the world at large being put on 'puter. If I couldn't write every once in a while to vent my feelings, I'd be a big mess (well, a bigger one than apparently I already am). Thanks for the concern (really, thank you), but it's when I can't write stuff like this that people should worry.
BTW - when I seriously started writing in middle school and would turn in stuff to my teachers, I got the same reactions from my teachers as yours just now. There was even one teacher who, despite my protests to the contrary, was convinced my poetry was a sign that I was going to commit suicide and so she sent me to the couselor's office, then called my mom in for an "emergency conference!"
I was never sent to the counselor's office, but I used to get the same reaction. Mom found a journal of poetry once after I'd gone to TC and cried for days. Then she apologized off and on for years. I tried to explain to her that it was just writing, so of course it was amplified, but I don't think she still understands.
I freaked out a teacher at SCMS in 7th grade. We had been reading O. Henry and Poe, and then had to write a short story. So I wrote an awesome story about a warped butcher who tired of this little boy, Charles, who would stop by every day and bother him, so he kills the little boy and disposes of him in the back. When the mother comes in the next day, he denies having seen the boy but takes a moment to offer her a great deal on some ground chuck.
What? I was 12. That's pretty clever for 12! My teacher didn't like it at all and graded it accordingly. My mom--laughed herself silly for almost a week! And if I'd written that story in school today, I'd be expelled for violence.
Who was the teacher? And I think it's hilarious. I swear, there were a lot of teachers in Scott County back in the day who had no business being teachers. When they actually encountered creativity and sparks of intelligence, they tried to shut it down as it was a threat to the status quo in the classroom. Oh, puh-leaze!
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