Usually,
I can bow my head
And take the blows.
the
Blinding words
the
Deafening looks
of
Disapproval.
Of well meaning
family,
friends,
strangers,
Myself.
Saying many different things
But translating into only one
Thunderous crescendo -
"You're doing it all wrong!"

...and they're probably right.

but then,
from nowhere,
comes that
soft,
gentle,
insistent
whisper
about him.
sweet
joyful
carefree
exuberant
little him
with a spirit
as bright as
his smile

....Something whispers to me
Something tells me
that if I
just let him be
if I
just let him become
if I
just let him grow
untethered

free

from the weight
of my
constant
'advisement'
then he'll grow up
to become

What he already is.

Please.
Let me forget.
If only for
A short time.
Only when
I Close my eyes.
Grant me the respite
Of those few moments -
To escape from
The reality
That is
Me.

You tried.
I gotta give you that.

And I wasn't
Just trying
To give you a hard time.

See, I heard what you had to say.
I listened to your words.

But I also heard
The emptiness
In them.

I heard
The absence of
Pain.

So until your pain,
Matches mine.

Don't bother.

I've spent so much
Time and energy
Trying to figure this out
On my own -
I think it's about time
You gave me some answers.
So what do you say?
How about you and I
Together
Contemplate -
If you will, a little
Friendly debate
Over why I am
So worthy of
Your hate.

Was it that
I refused to
Ingratiate?
Or to fall
Prostrate
Under your weight
And let you
Debilitate?
Did it enrage you
That I couldn't
Share his fate?
No, me you couldn't possibly
Castrate -
Emasculate?

Was it the master plan
That you took pains to
Formulate -
That I had to go and
Complicate?
While the others
Were so willing to
Cooperate -
I alone
Dared to
Deviate.

Or maybe it was
My unique ability -
Most likely innate -
To penetrate,
To see past every time
You didn't talk straight.
To see past every time you'd
Circumnavigate
Equivocate
Insinuate
Manipulate
And yes,
Even fabricate.


Well, don't you have anything to say?
Are you at a loss for words -
For once?
Don't you realize that
You owe me answers?
Wasn't it you who chose
To procreate -
Or at least
Copulate?
And wasn't it me
Who started off with
A clean slate?

But it's too late.
Why do I even bother
To ruminate,
Knowing full well
That not a thing
I say to you
Will reverberate
Or resonate.
That when you're
Faced with truth
All you can do
With it
Is mutilate.
And all I can do
Is face the truth
That I will never
Be able to
Alleviate,
But only tolerate
My fate:
Your hate.

I love playing dumb but -
I hate when it works

Every
Single
One
Of his
Traits
That
Annoys the hell out of me -
I possess.
Coincidentally.

You can always count on family
To put you in your proper place.

Ever since the day I discovered my hidden talent, my ego has been growing quite impressively. Oh yes, my imagination has been in ecstasy - "Famous poet", "Tormented soul", are just a few of the coveted titles I've bestowed upon myself of late. Given another week of this guilty pleasure, I'm convinced I would have added "Poet laureate." But those delusions died a quick and brutal death at the hands of - you guessed it - my family.

This is how the tragedy unfolded:

They asked me to help write a yearbook ad. At first, we goofed around a little, with disastrous results, and then I thought - maybe now would be a good time to whip out my new-found talent. I contemplated the matter a few minutes and decided that indeed, I was ready. So I went off to be alone and came back just a few moments later with my masterpiece, written in my 'signature style'. I bestowed it upon the lucky recipient, who read it over, made a face I regret remembering, and asked:

"What is this?"
"A poem" I said,
Taken aback
By the question.
"That's a poem? Two words on each line?" Is that better? Twerp.

Then, Twerp Junior took the paper out of Twerp's hand, read it, crunched up her nose, and in her squeaky voice said:

"How could it be a poem
If it doesn't even rhyme?"
Ya think ya know'em
But they surprise you every time.

So I figured, they're just little twerps, what do they know? I snatched up the paper, and took it to Twerp Senior. She read it over, and asked, "So,

Each first letter of
Every line,
Does
It spell
Out some
Thing?"

I felt like calling her an - you know what I felt like calling her ;). Well, at that moment, an old, familiar feeling suddenly came over me. Ahh...yes, the feeling of being in my proper place - but this time, I think I'm here to stay.

Sometimes,
When I look at them
And they look
So happy
And content,
I can't help but wonder
If it's because of me
Or in spite of me.

This is just
My observation,
But I've noticed that
Most people
Who choose
A different path
In life
Are just taking
The long route
Home

I hate the way she smiles
When I compliment her.
First,
Her chest expands
Ever so slightly
As if I breathed
New life
Into her lungs.
And then
A small
Suppressed
Smile
Unwittingly
Creeps onto
Her lips.
And I can't bear it.
I can't bear knowing
That I have
That much power
Over her.
I can't bear knowing
That I have
Her soft
Beautiful
Fragile
Heart
In my
Clumsy
Hands.

I called her an idiot.
It was inadvertent,
I wasn't even sure,
After I hung up,
That I had really done it.
But then a little later,
When I called her again,
And she said "hello,"
Her voice sounded different.
(For a second, I thought
Maybe the dybuk finally left,)
So I said "who is this?"
And she answered
"It's me, the eediot"
(That dybuk's never going to relocate.)
So I became very apologetic
"Oh, did I really say that?
I was spaced out,
I didn't know
What I was saying."
And then I apoligized
Ever so sweetly,
Ever so sincerely,
Ever so Oscar-worthily,
But truthfully,
I regretted
That I had taken a step back
In settling the score.
Last time I counted,
In order to break even,
I owe her
1,644 "you eediot"s,
3,293 "you slob"s
And 58 "bitch"es.
Plus a few more
Minor odds and ends.
But I'm starting to think
That at the rate I'm going,
This is just not going to happen
And anyway,
Revenge is not my thing.
And anyway,
I don't think it'll help
To lessen my pain.
But maybe
Writing about it
Will.

Ok, I get it.
Some people like to collect things.
I'm not one of them,
But I can understand it.
Coins, stamps, bottle caps, whatever -
I really get it.
But what I don't get is -
her collection.
I'd swear -
She treasures it,
She revels in it,
She dwells on it,
As much as the next collector.
And if you tell her so -
She'll deny it!
In fact,
She'll deny it so efficiently
That she'll even fool
Herself.
And I even get that too.
But what I don't get is,
Why in heaven's name
Would she want to collect
Enemies?

I wonder why I enjoyed it so much,
Why I got such a big kick out of it.
Maybe it was the novelty of it.
Maybe it was because I knew I deserved it,
Or maybe it was the absolute absurdity of it.
There she was,
Enunciating every letter
To make sure her message came through loud and clear -
Through each of our closed car windows -
"ASS HOLE".
...Or maybe I just found her impotent rage so amusing.
I assume the purpose of her doing that
Was to lessen her anger
And invoke mine,
Well, one of them I know she didn't do
And the other I doubt she did.
Actually, I'm pretty sure
She accomplished the opposite
Of both of her goals.
So I opened my window,
And I thanked her.
I figured that was the least I could do
For a perfect stranger
Who so selflessly gave up of herself
Solely for my benefit.

If you hate it,
Then why'd you create it?

If you hate it,
Then why d'you perpetuate it?

She was always screaming
And it just killed me
It stripped me
Of all my dignity
All my self worth
All my belief in myself
And then, I left
And finally
Finally
The screaming stopped.

But then
After a while
It started again.
And again I felt
All my dignity
All my self worth
All my belief in myself
Slipping away from me
But this time I couldn't leave.
This time
The screaming
Was coming from
Me

An interesting feeling came over me yesterday.
And it made me think.
And it made me wonder.
And it made me psychoanalyze.

Then today,
The opposite feeling came over me.
And it made me think.
And it made me wonder -
Why did I bother to psychoanalyze yesterday?

I'm lost.
In all the noise,
The sirens,
The phones,
The talking,
The screaming,
The crying,
The responsibilities,
The obligations,
The commitments,

The worries,

The fears,

The guilt,

The regrets,

The layers,
The defenses.
The chaos.

I wish that
I could find
For myself
A small place
In this huge world
Where I can be alone.
To reflect.
To listen to the silence.
And I wonder if -
In the solitude.
In the stillness.
I could find myself.
And if I did -
Would I regret it?

It amazes me how stupid smart people can be. A stupid person is satisfied with the old fashion, tried and true methods of acting stupid. But for a smart person that just won't do. No, when he's intent on acting stupid, he has to do it in the smartest way possible. The result is stupidity taken to new heights (or depths - depending on your vantage point). But then, he's still not satisfied. While a stupid person would just continue on and not even think about the stupidity he's just accomplished (most likely because he's unaware of it - I assume), the smart person chooses to dwell on it, thinking of how to perfect it the next time he decides to give it a go - though he'll probably call it "making sure never to do anything so stupid again." But that's irrelevant, because the end result is the same - he will try - again and again - until he's satisfied that he can't come up with any more clever and innovative ways of acting stupid. Which is approximately - never.

How could I have been so selfish? How could I have been so blind to the possibility that she might actually have it worse than I did? It never even occurred to me that that could be the case! But yesterday, it was clear to me - when she told me that. She said it nonchalantly, and I reacted the same, but inside, inside, I was anything but 'chalant', and I'm sure she wasn't either. But I didn't know how to react, or rather, I didn't know what would be the best outward reaction for her too see, so I put on a poker face - I figured I can't go wrong with that. And I continued to talk with her easily, as if she hadn't just told me something that made me feel like someone had punched me in the gut. But that was then, and now I'm left with now. Now I'm left with agonizing over what to do - feeling like I have a responsibility. It's clear to me that I can no longer afford the comfort of believing that things are not so bad because she never complains. No matter how many smiles she puts on, and no matter how convincing they are, I can't let myself be fooled by it. It's the easy thing to do. It's the comfortable thing to do. It's the wrong thing to do. But what's the right thing?