The Process

I just don’t give a fuck.
”That’s what the look
On his face said.
But I read his look otherwise.
Something told me it was there
To protect a wounded spirit,
That was still fighting
But close to dead.

“Bitch please.
You can’t tell me shit.”
Appeared to be there,
At the forefront of her thoughts,
I saw it in her gaze.
I decided to be a little extra cooler
To her,
As I could see she was disguising
Her grief and fear
Behind a force field of rage.
They suffer,
The youths, suffer everyday.
Coming up with innovative and ever so
Extreme coping mechanisms
To keep the pain at bay.

Tactics which serve a purpose twofold:
To guard against the external attacks
Along with the unconscious though
Patterned destruction of one’s self.
Chasing unfortunate dreams of
Unattainable wealth.
Living and dying
For the facade of respect,
Unable to understand that true
Is not something you can “get.”
They just can’t hear it.
Warding off emotions as if evil spirits.
And yet so insightful, creative, and
They compose masterpieces comparable
To Vivaldi’s Seasons.

Looking into the still innocent young
Though rather patiently,
For the moment they offer their reasons.
As they see it.

The emotions that usually reside
Hidden beneath those murky
Trying so desperately to be denied;
Momentarily surface.
And then are necessarily submerged
Once again deep into the abyss.

Floating along the surface
Waiting for them,
Until the next time
They are willing to take that risk.
Throwing a life preserver their way
To ensure their opportunity to stay afloat
A little longer on that particular day.
And then we swim
Only as long as they can tolerate.

For like mermaids,
They must swim back into the deep
To ensure their survival.
Yet they wish to be human
And so, promise to visit.
Understandably though,
That’s a promise that
They can’t always keep.



~ by butrfly on December 21, 2009.

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