Teenage

This poem is a Diptych to The Eyes of Insanity
by Joseph Benoit Hubbard

I go to the beach, on a beautiful day,
I’d be there all noon, to have fun and play.
But halfway through play, my curiosity peaks,
And I wander around, to squish thing with my feet.

First the sand, grainy and white,
I stuck in my feet, and squished with all my might.
Sandhoppers popped out,
And gave me a fright.

Next was the seaweed, wet and green,
I slipped while squishing, and bruised my spleen.
A crab submerged, scurried around,
And fled back to his sea-plant home, where he was found.

After the slip, I was wary,
To squish the soft sand patch, of which there were many.
I lowered my foot in, prepared for the worst,
It sunk two feet in, making sand bubbles burst.

All of a sudden, I saw a shape,
Laying on the shore, it made my vision sway.
I cried out for help, but no sound escaped,
For the shape on the beach, had sealed my fate.

I went down to the beach one day,
Then my vision swayed,
On the beach i saw a shape,
That sealed my fate.
I ran away.

The next day I went down to the place I fled,
The shape now glowing red,
I went down to touch it,
Then the flood hit,
And washed my mind away.

I saw the sea swallow up my blood,
As the flood grew stronger,
I started to see.

Out of the sea,
I saw thousands of eyes
That glowed like crimson fire,
The waves turned wild.
Out of the sea the crimson spheres grew closer,
As my eyes grew dimmer and dimmer.

I woke up on this day,
For my vision swayed,
my arms were bound,
The walls were cushioned around,
I saw the eyes and then i cried,
as they took me away.

Promises are too easily breakable
Strung together only by the desire to be trusted
Words held up by the vigilant watch of others
And by flimsy human pride

Cheating is breaking a promise to yourself, they say
But what are my promises really worth to me?
Promises which aren’t scrutinized by anybody
Promises which when broken, don’t cause pain to others
Pride is only held when there are others to judge you
But when the only judge is yourself, there is little you can do
Justifications, justifications, justifications;
All pile up, chipping away at self-esteem
Until your own word means nothing to you anymore

One death, two deaths, and then three
Until death is just a number on the screen
No permanent penalties to any mistakes
Restart, repeat and reset; Nothing’s at stake

A safe place for my heart to race,
For me to reveal my over-perfectionist face
Sometimes, when I sit fuming at my hundredth save-file
I wish that life had a respawn button

Plane – it holds all shapes,
all flat;
It cannot hold the height,
not even depth.

3D – is when you add that more;
the more of depth or height.
It holds our modulated world we see
and makes general life qualified.

Multi-dimensions – it’s all crazy;
it’s a bit more complicated.
We can think of them as the bin,
full of unseen-ever-entangled layers.

True love is amazing.
True love is awful.
True love is a way to cheer you up
and a way to drag you down into your misery.
I mean I’ve loved before
Yeah, and it’s amazing
but heartbreak is worse than grief
it makes you feel so low and so sad.
True love is a disguise
for a new type of pain
that you don’t properly experience
until you are a teen.
True love is torture

The way the wind blows is like an emotion.
The harder the wind, the angrier the earth.
When I sit and watch the wind express its emotions
I feel like I understand.
I get why the world is angry.
The way the wind blows
is in a way of trust
like the wind is trusting its secrets
to those who care to listen.
The way the wind blows is in peace not war.
The wind understands you
more than you understand it
so take care.
The way the wind blows.

Silly sausage

His legs are pretty small

He’s not very tall

He’s trotting down the hall

While chasing his ball

He was running down the corridor

When he leaped out the door

Speeding down the lane

Grrrh! What a pain

Caught him in the bin

He was eating with a grin

I said NO!

Then tapped him on the chin

I was doing my job

When I heard some feet go plod

Oh, it’s the hairy sausage dog

Talent is an understanding
an intuitive knowledge of how things work
a Native speaker of a language
who simply knows, understands, without being told

But not everybody has talent
some have to be painstakingly taught
slowly, but gradually, we learn the grammar, the rules
the wisdom to understand, the courage to speak
We Hear, we Talk and we Learn
to Draw, to Write, to Sing
They’re all languages
the geniuses may intuitively understand them
But we can be taught,

It’s amazing how one thing can mean so many things
from deep, meaningful love
to tyrannous hate and broken hearts,
from safe healing and sacrifice
to seeping blood and painful grief,
from bright roses that flourish with a smile
to the burning and destruction of these very smiles,
from sweet, juicy strawberries that explode with an exciting flavor
to rich, spicy chillies that can bring someone to their senses,
from fiery, gorgeous evening sunsets
to exploding fireworks that show even in the darkest of times,
from celebrations of gratitude and friendly parties
to the crying and hopeless screams presiding in the thick air.
We will never know which one it is
but that’s why it’s beautiful,
that’s why it has meaning