Close your eyes as I sentence you to go back in time
To turn the clock backwards; won't coast you a single dime

All the way to days of catching fireflies and carrying lunchboxes
Being scared of monsters in the closet and building fort mattresses

When you made a best friend by sharing your blue crayon – the color of your skin didn't matter
When candy was everything you wanted to buy. And ice-cream was the ultimate answer

When nobody was prettier than mom, and nobody was cooler than dad
When she waited for you when you got home and you sat on his lap; nothing would ever go bad

When rainy days only meant we'll manage to do everything inside the classroom and continue to play
When chicken pox was entertaining, balloons made everything okay and we played with clay

When it was a big deal to go to an amusement park and finally get on the ‘Big Kid’ rides
When goodbye only meant until summer is over and no one left your side

When you sneaked up on your toys because ‘Toy Story’ was real
When you spent each day in the sun and everything was ideal

When mistakes were corrected by exclaiming 'do over' and everybody was a friend
When we all played together as one and there was no pretend

When decisions were made by going eeny-meeny-miney-moe
Never having a clue that we’ll soon say goodbye and it’ll be time to grow...

Those days weren't going to last
Huh... They passed by pretty fast

Days of wearing a blanket on your back thinking you could fly
Of tip-toeing around the house; turning to a spy

Days of wearing your mom's heels and pearls and acting like a queen
Of chasing each other in shopping malls and making a scene

Days of being afraid of the dark and pretending to be sick just to skip school
Of climbing trees, swinging on swings, and following playground rules

Days of bedtime stories and being tucked in bed
Of pretending to be a zombie and playing dead

Days of jump ropes, Nintendo games, and flipping coins to make everything fair
Of Hide & Seek, pillow fights and jumping up and down the stairs

Days of having a recess to run around and scream
Of no race issues; just one team

Days of not caring about what you wore; whether a size two or ten
Of being tired from playing, but we'd sleep only to wake up and play again

Days of ordering happy meals not for the food, but the toy; never worrying about weight
Of 10$ feeling like a million & another extra dollar is a miracle. When ten o’clock was considered late

Days of looking at the stars/clouds and imagining shapes, occupying an entire evening
Of no matter how bad your voice was, you weren't embarrassed to sing

Days of following ants and having a pet bug
Of camping in the backyard, and Barni was your drug

Days of melted chocolate all over our faces and still not caring who was watching
Of ‘Opposite Days’, checking who leaped more steps, "You're it" and racing

Days of cuss words being banned and you didn't have to be compared
Of having innocence and being treated equal. You were once heard

Remember those days?? Or have you forgotten that you weren't born yesterday??

Before having responsibilities and driving cars. Just simple cardboard spaceships, and the privilege to sit in the front seat
Before x-boxes, PlayStation2, or internet browsers. Before you made quick judgments, lied and cheated

Before changing ourselves to impress others and wearing make-up
Covering who we truly are, claiming that we have grown up

Before caring about sexism, classicism, or racism, and letting our ignorant society take over us
Being misled by social media; blinding us from the fact that we’re all the same and making a huge fuss

Before money and popularity controlled and took over - Being mean and acting like jerks because we think it’s cool
Mocking others because they're not the same as us. Abusing people; treating them as a tool…

Before all that… Days of our childhood – How I wish to go back
Enter a time machine and get back to that youth track

But time isn't on our side and we have to leave it all behind eventually
Yet learn from it… Gather that knowledge and better yourself… Childhood days are the cherry on top of this reality.

The truth about being a superhero, is that only certain people know when to call us at exactly the right time. When the world is about to break into chaos and when the cities need us to be there.

But this isn’t exactly the job I thought it was going to be. I have devoted myself to being the best I can be for the people of my city, for freedom and justice, and for you. And for the first few months of my job, I was everywhere.

People knew my name, I was in every newspaper, children looked up to me, put me on their lunchboxes, they wanted to be me…

They say heroes aren’t born, they’re made. But I was born! Of  the kindness of my mother, and the bravery of my father to create this image of strength. I am a superhero! I can fly, can you fly? Can you wear this suit? Can you handle the responsibility?

Not all of my city wanted a superhero. Some of them became the villains. And it’s not like I can’t handle a few bad guys, but sometimes, the citizens are my kryptonite.

Sometimes they don’t want me, one day they praise me and the work that I’ve done, the next day, they say they don’t need another hero, I’m just another problem, they say “Leave us the way that you found us: broken. And not needing anybody around to fix it.”

But I’m not perfect either. I can fly, but gravity still brings me back to earth, I can run, but not from my problems, I can carry cars with my two hands. But the weight of the world still sits on my shoulders.

The day they told me to leave the city, I reminded myself that if I harmed any one person, broke my promise to be the sole keeper of freedom and justice for all. That I would hang up my cape and quit.

And I did. I became human again, I am not as strong as you made me out to be. You told me I wasn’t needed. And soon after the villains had returned and they were shouting for me to save them again.

I thought you didn’t want me, stop it, I’m no hero, I’m just a person. Please, my powers only do so much. Do you still need me to save you? I’m just an alien, a science experiment, a mutant, a drawing in a comic book.

I am not your superhero! I can’t do this anymore! It was you who pushed me away, you fear my powers, you fear me. But I didn’t do anything wrong.

Please… Just let me go.  You are the heroes now. Just let me go.

I get the hunch that the ashes of kindergarten,
Lunchboxes, the national anthem
Are floating from the edge of us
So many sophomore stars from a cigarette’s tip,

Somewhere down the mountain we lost our winter coats
And bicycle summers, and plastic sailboats,
No puddles and rainboots, or slick soft dogs
And paper flowers, captured fish and frogs

We try to jump in puddles, and we float

Deep-bright and hissing in the city chill
Childhood traded for strange soft skin
Grumpy cats and boardgames for mixed drinks and casual ***
And the cicadas gaily chirping fall away like

Fishbowl-helmet astronauts, lost without gravity
Mercury, Venus, Youth,
Maturity, Jupiter, Saturn

We are never kids again,
Nor adults until we die

wait until the phone rings
and the teacher goes inside,
under the slide at Recess:
you can put your lips on mine

Funny, how sometimes butterflies
skip over your skin without ever landing,
how basketballs spin
around the rim without swishing,
or how things never seem to work out.
I’ve been wishing

for moments of high tide, gravitational
moons that would draw me to you,
in the middle of May on Coney Island.
I want you to pull my pigtails like it’s preschool.
I want to bleed neon, shout pop tunes
to accompany my words that sound like
a poem we all had to learn
to recite from memory.

Funny, how we store meat behind our popsicles
in the freezer, how we tear up things
before we throw them away,
or how defeated we feel when we wake up
to zero new messages.
I’ve been reaching

for the plug in the drain,
sipping champagne,
hearing your name,

when all I really want is lunchboxes,
the kind your mom leaves notes in.
I want to beat you in four square,
color on my Converse, catch crayfish
in the creek behind your house.

Funny, how we tone down our souls
to fit the mold, or interview each other
based on pieces of paper when we are
alive, and breathing, and it’s funny
how we save money for next time,
plan for tomorrow before we’re done with today,
count our accomplishments before our scars.

Funny, how all we ever wanted
was to finally be exactly where we are.

Turns out,
I’m an idiot
who knows nothing and does no good.
I watch the moon go down
every couple months
to readjust my calendar
and pour my non-organic coffee from
glass pots made in emerging markets.
You may say we’re losing the world
or that the Earth should be preserved—
Fine.
I **** at the feet of your bourgeois children and their plastic, antibacterial lunchboxes.
For me there is no world to lose.

Truth be told it's similar to those little notes out mothers left in our lunchboxes.
We never notice them until they're gone.
They were just an ordinary piece of paper with swirly writing that was difficult to decipher.
Almost as if they're the full stops at the end of sentences we only notice once we read back over and they're not there
That's how I only noticed that you're not here now when you once were everywhere.

This moment in time, about twelve
Years ago; a memory that keeps
Resurfacing these days.
I tell it over beers -not at all to brag-
To new friends and old
Aquaintances.
Self-employed, young and working
My hands to shreds to get by.
I had not eaten for days.

I'd drink litres of water
And bite my proud tongue every
Time I thought to ask my parents.
Again.
Already losing friends over debt,
I had exhausted all channels.
I'd keep my eyes on the street
Dreaming of coins.
Monday, nauseous with nothing
But myself to throw up.
In the barracks. Not a soul.
Fridge. I open it.
Boxes with lunches for thirty
Honest men. Wifemade leftovers.
Smell of homes.
I shut the fridge door.
On a shelf to my right,
A bag of buns long forgotten.
The mould only superficial.
Heaven underneath.

My eyes welled up as I ate.
I take no pride in managing to
Become that hungry
In a rich country during rich times.
But I will always remember
That I never touched
The boys' lunchboxes.

My brain atrophies
And still I wait
As if someone will
Come carriage me off
The curvature of the planet
And bestow upon me gifts
I have no title to.

I walk between the aisles
Quietly admiring the mass of produce
Bared fruits eagerly poised
Waiting to drive home in the back seat
To be manipulated and munched
And hastily shoved into lunchboxes
While the coffee smugly percolates

But the engrossed bins prove
Too bountiful to harvest—
My appetite no longer yearns
For the gifts at its feet.
I swear not only did the price go up
But the loaf got smaller

That’s all dreams turn out to be
An amalgam of juxtapositions
So we stand on both sides of the river
While trying to swim against the current
And we know
It’s much too late to still be awake

Horton’s Bend
Dave Davis-2013
Treat the earth well,
It was not given to you by your parents.
It was loaned to you by your children.”
Native American Proverb

Chapter 1
During the early part of the 16th century, the Spanish began their expeditions into the New World in their quest for riches in the form of gold and silver. It was a time of great competition between explorers attempting to be the first to expand the Spanish Empire. Famously Ponce de Leon discovered La Florida in 1533 which allowed geographers and map makers to better outline the coast which de Leon hugged during his travels. His perception that it was an island misled geographers for a number of years. Historic documents do describe a quest for a body of water which was known for a restoration of vigor but the Fountain of Youth was not a focus of de Leon’s. Upon learning of La Florida, further expeditions were made ready. Hernando de Soto’s exploration, which began in the vicinity of present day Tampa Florida in 1539, was a four year journey which provided more information about the strange new continent.
Other expeditions filtered their way into the southeastern United States. Expeditions such Tristan de Luna de Arellano traveled into the interior southeast from 1559 to 1561 including the chiefdom of Coosa in Northwest Georgia and Juan Pardo who led two expeditions into the present day Carolinas are also chronicled.

What a strange world it must have been having stepping into what they must have considered an undeveloped and tangled landscape having been at sea for months prior to their arrival. These new comers were warriors riding into a land of what they considered savages ruled by mighty chiefs. The chiefdoms were purposely distanced apart in order to ensure a semi peaceful relationship with nearby chiefdoms. Each principal chief or cacique lived in areas surrounded by earthen mounds and fortified walls with hand dug moats. These rulers were presented with gifts of corn, exotic materials from foreign lands, and other tributes by their subjects. During the past seventy five years, archaeologists have reconstructed the past life ways of these people through their excavations of village sites and burials. Coupled with the work of dedicated historians, we now have a better understanding of how these native peoples lived and died. We will never fully understand their world.
Theirs was a hermetic world which was provided all that was needed. Respectful of the land and its gift of life giving resources, the native peoples were dependant on the land which figured prominently into their spiritual being. Their needs were meager as they did not desire wealth or the need to satisfy a gluttonous royalty. The principal chief’s rulings were simple and they obeyed without question. He and the other leaders asked only what the earth would provide. Their only loyalty was to the ethereal gods and to the cacique who communicated the will of the Creator. In times of famine or strife, theirs was a community that continued to be self sustained as it had always been from birth to death. They must have considered that dark times had arrived with the new strangers. These interlopers were not here to commune but rather to bring greed and lust to their land.

Native American groups surely were frightened by the sight of an entourage of the bearded new comers. Dressed in quilted shirts with bright colored sashes with tall hip boots, their appearance had to be most curious to the natives. The presence of never before seen animals such as the horses bearing the soldiers were cause enough for the Indians to scatter from their villages. The horsemen wore the heaviest armor consisting of chain mail or if preferred a breastplate of sorts. Their weapons were a long lance in conjunction with a small shield. The foot soldiers wore peaked steel helmets along with quilted shirts armored with small steel plates and were equipped with sharpened steel weapons such as short double edged swords, halberds, and crossbows. Matchlock guns were also a weapon employed by the Spanish explorers. They were close combat weapons which would have to suffice since heavy artillery could not be used in the thick and tangled environment.
The Spanish found the New World to be a land of hardships when they depleted their supplies of foodstuffs between chiefdoms. This land proved not to be a place of abundant riches but rather difficult terrain for pedestrian journey. In order to supplement the Spanish took the stored food supplies that Indians had readied for winter. As Old World warriors, they had no hesitancy to threaten or harm when supplies were needed. Word of their arrival brought both fear and awe to native groups who were duped by the rich lies and gifts of the metal objects that was so foreign to them.
While the devastation of Spanish contact impacted native lives, it should not over shadow the rich history of these people. Prior to contact, they were thought to be involved in the construction of a society emerging from the chiefdom level. Their capability to understand astronomical constants, their ability to sustain an agricultural culture, and the art produced attest to a vibrant society that was merely unfortunate to be caught up in a dynamic European expansion that was inevitable.  
Their story is more than that of European contact as they dealt with pestilence, political instability, drought, and dwindling resources in large communal sites. It comprises a much larger picture from a story long forgotten in a language that will forever remain unknown. History is filled with the tragedies of conquest but this story does not end with the Spanish invasion of peaceful natives. It does not end at all because their spirit was stronger than any intrusion by the strangers. While much suffering has occurred from this contact, there was one group who managed to avoid conflict and quietly retain their heritage. Unfortunately time has left a ragged history with gaps that are not fully understood by those who seek wisdom from the past. No matter. Their intentions regarding history were never as strong as their passion for the land.

On an unknown date during the 16th Century in Northwest Georgia, a group of Spanish invaders made contact with a group of Native Americans who believe in the sacred ground they call home.



Chapter 2
Ronnie King sat on the tailgate of his 4x4 pickup and drained the last of an ice cold Budweiser that had been waiting on him all day. Ronnie kept a cooler full of cold ones for quitting time although he usually just drank the one beer before leaving for home. Working as a foreman on a timber crew, he was soaked in sweat and enjoyed just taking a moment to reflect on a day’s work. He always felt like a man who could tote a chainsaw for eight hours and deal with the elements was a man by God. The sun would be setting soon and he would talk to a few of the boys before they headed to the house. It also gave him time to unwind a little bit and to pick off the ticks that seemed to always be attracted to him. He sure hadn’t forgotten that bout of Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever that had contracted a few years back. He remembered well how dizzy he was that hot afternoon. Some of the boys had chuckled but nobody scoffed at his 107 degree temperature when he was checked into the hospital. Anyways this was the best part of the day and he always got to thinking about his life.

Ronnie loved his job and wondered how others could ever work inside all day. Hell, even if he was paid more he couldn’t really see the benefits of extra cash compared to working out in the woods. More than once he had paid attention to deer signs and had bagged some bucks that were the envy of his fellow workers. It was just a great deal to be outside. Sure he ached pretty good by the end of the week and knew arthritis was in his future but it gave him a great opportunity to do what he really loved: look for Indian sites. Ronnie had been just a boy when he found his first arrowhead down on the floodplain of the Coosa River which ran through his grandfather’s farm. That thrill was one that never got old for the young man. Those who are observant and willing to risk the mud never knew what they would find after a good thunderstorm on a freshly plowed field. As Ronnie grew to be a teenager he already had a collection of artifacts that the local museum drooled over. Other kids that were Ronnie’s age were busy playing football or were involved in some school activity. Ronnie was different and had little interest in neither scholastic nor collegiate pastimes. Once he finished his chores at home,  he headed for the river.

When Ronnie graduated from high school he got a full time job working at Patterson’s Logging. At 18, Ronnie was a tall man with a full beard and was often mistaken for someone much older. He never was a big talker or one to boast. Many at school thought him slow but that was where he fooled them and the teachers too. No reason to give your all since they would expect more anyway. Besides what would he do with trigonometry? He loved the outdoors and spent quiet evenings along the river banks staring at the ground in search of the history that he loved. Teachers didn’t spend much time on how Indians lived during the time that the mounds were being built. He enjoyed books at the library much better than any of the school books. In particular, he loved the book Sun Circles and Human Hands which had wonderful pictures of burials dug up during the WPA days. He did take the time to learn how the Works Progress Administration had been created in the 40’s and created jobs to work on the large dam projects that brought on some of the earliest organized archaeological projects in the United States. At night he would look at Sun Circles and gaze at the pictures of the excavated burials and all the exotic grave goods that had been buried with the interred over 500 years before. The well made pottery vessels had always been one of his favorite artifacts but he had never found a whole ***. Having spent time with different books loaned from the library, Ronnie know the difference between pottery sherds dating to the earlier Woodland Period and those that dated to the later Mound builders or what the archaeologists called the Mississippian Period. He also enjoyed the ornaments and jewelry found in the burials. The designs in the shape of woodpeckers, rattlesnakes, and strange squatting men with eagle claws were carved into shell gorgets that were found around the necks of the nobles of the village. He realized that not all graves contained abundant artifacts as some simply were just a prone or flexed body that must have been a common person. Ronnie knew that there had to be some schools here in the south where you could learn to be a paid archaeologist but who had money to go to college? Besides, they might want him to give up what he found. What right did a museum have to something he had found? No, that didn’t seem right at all.
Patterson’s Logging worked all over a tri-county area and allowed Ronnie access to private property that he could never get permission to walk over. There were a dozen men who worked for Patterson not including Patterson’s boy, Ricky, who had helped Ronnie get hired. Ricky and Ronnie used to do a little cat fishing on weekends. Kicked back with a six pack on a boat ramp, the boys used to fight off the bugs attracted to the lantern glowing bright in the middle of the night. They talked about girls they’d like to get a hold of and wishing they had money for a nice pickup. Ricky’s daddy made pretty good money but most of it was ******* in chainsaws and equipment for keeping the logs steadily flowing to the saw mill. Ronnie never told Ricky but he was **** grateful to be working on a crew at Patterson’s.

A couple of the men who worked for logging outfit were from Cedartown which was located south of Rome. They didn’t speak to anybody very often and pretty much kept to themselves. Ronnie didn’t know them but had heard them called Jarvis and Ladge. The crews had finished logging a section near Armuchee Creek where some county workers had been using bulldozers to prep the area for a bridge project. It was time for lunch so everybody got out their lunchboxes and sack lunches. Jarvis and Ladge ate quickly and headed out to the disturbed area to walk it over. Ronnie had already figured on going out there too but they had beat him to it. He just went ahead and watched them looking for a few minutes. Finally Ronnie headed out and walked around a little distance from them. They glared at him at first but didn’t make a ******* contest out of this patch of dirt. Having walked around staring at the fresh soil for a good ten minutes the three were somewhat close to each other so they stopped and everybody wanted to inspect what the others had found.
Ladge had found a few good sized flint chips and a broken tip of a point. Jarvis looked at him and said “Buddy you ain’t found **** look at this piece of pottery!” He held up a large thick rim sherd which had pinched marks all around the curved rim. “Nice one Jarvis” whistled Ladge. “That’s a Mississippian sherd, Jarvis” offered Ronnie. The others stared at him until Ladge said “Boy this ain’t Mississippi! You in Georgia.” Ronnie didn’t want to be a smart *** to the older men so he said “I been reading in some books on ancient Indians and the pictures showed pottery that looked just like that one that was near 500 years old.” “Huh” Jarvis mumbled “Well what do you think about this bird point?” It was a small triangular point no bigger than a thumbnail made of black flint. Ronnie hesitated a moment and told them “That’s a nice one but you know they didn’t hunt birds with those don’t you?” The men just shrugged and Jarvis said “That’s what I always heard them called……that the Indians used a blow gun and blew them through it”. Ronnie was a little more confident but with a little caution said “That point was used on a bow and arrow…..you know how most points you find have a stem on the bottom end?” Both men nodded with interest. “Well those were used on spears but this type was used on a bow….bout the same time as that sherd you found”

Ronnie thought he might be scoffed at but both men just shrugged and one mumbled “Well I’ll be ******”. Ronnie then realized that Jarvis and Ladge’s interest was just in one upping each other and it was something to do besides talking to the other loggers. “I’d like to look at one of them books you been reading…..I got something I found and want to know more about it.” Ronnie’s interest was peaked and asked “What does it look like?” Jarvis tilted his head a little while looking over at Ladge and said “Just bring that book of yourn’s when you can.” Ronnie took the hint and all three realized it was time to start on the next parcel of the project.
As the work week continued, the three usually sat together and formed a group of their own talking about artifacts away from the others. Ronnie brought one book in but it was from some work over in Alabama and didn’t have what Jarvis was looking for. One Friday after work, Ronnie was about to head home when Jarvis and Ladge asked him to take a ride down to Cedartown and look at their collection. The two had a little cabin out off of Chubb Road with a rusted 49 Ford sitting out front. A metal trash barrel smoldered in the front yard. Ronnie walked in the cabin and had to choke back holding his nose as it reeked of sourness. These two ol’ boys were true bachelors who were not ones to throw out clothes until they fell apart. It was just sometimes they didn’t feel like picking up anything from a pile that had lain in a corner for a couple of weeks. Jarvis walked to a chest of drawers and opened it and asked Ronnie to come take a look. Ronnie looked in the drawer and saw a collection of artifacts typically found in the area. The material ranged from large Savannah River points dating back some 5,000 years to more of what the boys had termed “bird points”. Ronnie picked up a partial *** with check marked stamping and smiled. “This is a nice one….I’ve seen fragments like this on the Oostanaula.” He added “It’s from what is they call the Woodland Period”. Ladge smiled a big toothless smile and proudly proclaimed he had f

There is nothing below us that has not once been on level ground.
At some point or another, we will be below, and the things on top will just look down and think about
the Underneath,
just as we do;
just as we are.

And maybe the Underneath is not just dirt and grime and lost socks and extra buttons,
but the voices living Under your skin and the words that are sitting in the pit of your stomach right now. Maybe the Underneath is the butterfly that you accidentally stepped on and the tears you shed for it.

Or maybe, the Underneath is the only thing that is holding your surface in place.
Buildings are just cement over metal.
Humans are just flesh over bones; sinew over joints and glue.

But more than that, people are swirling nebulas of ideas, and sticky notes on lunchboxes, and of things that always seem to be just
On the tip of your tongue.
(Underneath it I suppose, if the mouth is to be blamed for a lack of noise.)

So, if skeletons are integral to our construction, and bodies but a tarp over a cage holding being, why are we so hesitant to peel our shells back and reveal our
Underneaths?

Under my bed, I have letters that I have written to you, bundled in twine and tape,
and I leave them under my bed so that the monsters there may have something new to read.
Who needs a magazine when you have blue ink from veins, spilling on page after page of i-love-yous,
spelling out promises and bribes and the worst bits of myself and of you.

these are the things that sit just

Underneath.

I arrive and the scents of morning dew and fresh flowers gush into my nostrils. Breathing in nature as I start on the day. Just 5 minutes ’til the bells go ring ring ring and the peace moment song echoes through the hallways.

I continue on with the loud chatters from left and right. Papers ripping, ball pens tapping, and feet pacing. At lunch, we munch on lunchboxes being passed from one another. Three hours more but eyelids feel heavy from all the eating and talking.

I depart by walking down a trail of tranquil green trees towering over one another. On warm days, the flower petals fall gracefully and I follow along the path like a scene in a movie. Sometimes, I take on another path, and the smoke of the grilling of barbecues envelopes, and I finish off with my white uniform smelling with a satisfied appetite.

Lawrence Hall
[email protected]

        Gearing Up for School Which is Just Around the Corner

School is forever gearing up or winding down
And if school is not around the corner
Then summer takes that very same turn instead
With back-to-school sales beginning in June

Children wheedle their moms for the coolest sneaks
And shopping carts are heavy with pens in packs
Yellow pencils, notebooks, scissors, and glue
Construction paper, adhesive tape, tissues

Lunchboxes, paper sacks, term calendars -
While in a lonely room
A pathetic little man fondles his Glock

Lunchboxing

Intellectual property

This is and has ways of ruling unexpectedly

Prison gang leaders are rarely confronted with adapting
But in lunchboxes world he is prepared not to feel

Perhaps dismember the other way

That's another dominion of awareness

Upon laws of serial

Dismember and the dis assembler be come constant
In the mind of the subjugatable in the wild

They may choose eating opposition
Removal of part of opposition for toy is a pastime

They of that ordering ability in prison carry heavy and light
Thoughts

Without riot inside may translate a limb from disciplining those whom riot during the time of lunchbox

Being made to not move on ones side for years or months removes limb from speaking

That is a solitary endeavor without a useful

My friends hid their ******* magazines.
I hid my poetry,
my dog-eared philosophy books,
tucked behind jackets and empty lunchboxes.
They shared their pages
smirking,
pointing,
laughing.
I sat beside them,
nodded at the curves I couldn't feel,
while words burned holes in my chest.
We all spoke English.
But I never understood a word.
Not theirs.
Not mine.
What the ******* hell is wrong with me?
"****" and "Hell"
they stuck to my tongue,
became my Favorite prayers,
my rebel hymns,
my answerless questions.
Fifty-five years.
And nothing has changed.
Still hiding poems.
Still faking laughs.
Still wondering:
What the ******* hell is wrong with me?