The Cub Your Mother Warned You About (jrcubindy) wrote,
The Cub Your Mother Warned You About

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JrCub's Poetry Corner...

My room is a mess, but then, so am I
From what I gather and what I know.
So it fits that I live in the debris of my past
Call me a pack rat, maybe it's art

This psycho-archaeological ruin
Must offer some sort of treasure to dig up
Like my old Nintendo, where I used to feel guilty
Swearing at Megaman for not making the damn jump
Now they're just the words
That my mother taught me inadvertently

Then there's the soft doll I kept
That kept me company when I was afraid
That I was going to die young
And ultimately die unknown, drama queen in the making
I still have both, the doll
And the fear, and I can feel it now.
Like the first, second, third, fourth
HIV tests, the relief was always immense
But the memory of the fear
Is what remains, on the floor in front of me

Alongside old tapes and compact discs
That used to serve as my protection at school
In my long dark coat, I could hide
In the music, I could go deaf
And I was safe, free to hate everyone
Everyone who laughed at my weight
Everyone who laughed at my ideas
Everyone in general

And once again I feel it now, the old hatred
The violence that propelled me
And the depression that almost killed me
Even up to last week

And there it sits on the floor, in boxes
At my feet and completely useless
A dear friend told me that this would pass
Once I gave up the dramatics of it all
Another gave me the secret of it,
There was something positive under all of these
The desire to live and be important
The desire to be a stronger person
But desires get twisted,
And the emotions get left behind

'So take what you can from them', he said
'And let them float off, start at the beginning'
Hundreds, thousands of years ago
My past lies before me, before I was me
Until I reached the first moment
The first pain, the first guilt, the first hate
And send them on their way
They fly off and became trees
Becoming a beautiful forest in my mind
Where every tree has the knowledge
Of the emotional event it used to be
And a list of what I need to learn from it

But the emotions vanish,
The negative ones anyway
And I feel lighter than I ever have.
The weight of history flies off
The pain of memory heals
And my room is still a mess
Call me a packrat but I still say it's art
And I don't feel guilty about it.

"Cleaning" by braxton
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