Chat Room
06-05-2010, 03:44 AM
While recently hospitalized, I discovered, by the use of several therapies, that the incest that I knew had been perpetrated upon me was greater than I knew or could have imagined. This incest, in addition to the suicides on the paternal side of my family; father; grandfather; great uncle; uncle and four of his sons- my paternal cousins- make a compelling case for my desire to end my life that I have had since I was twenty. Incest is unspeakable. If you are a survivor, then you know what I mean. I don't know whether or not you feel lucky that you have survived the incest. I'm still working on that one. This poem was the result of digging a bit deeper.
The Boy With Wings: A Tale of Forsaken Tranquility
When the boy with wings was born,
His mother and father cried
And told him they would love him
no matter what he looked like.
His doctor explained to them
That sometimes these mistakes occurred in nature,
For reasons no one knew.
"He will probably never walk,"
He told them.
"It is almost impossible for a child
With wings to learn to walk."
But his mother and father decided
At that moment that he WOULD walk;
that they would cure him of his wings;
That he would overcome this,
That he would lead a normal life.
So they took their son home,
And from the very first they told him
That he was no different from anyone else,
that he was not unique, that he was not special,
that he was just plain ordinary.
With their feet, they held him firmly to the ground,
And slapped him when he rose, quite naturally, into the air.
"You are strong."
And the little boy with wings grew,
And learned to walk, never flying.
And learned to speak, never singing
(As people with wings are supposed to do)
Sometimes he came home crying
Because other kids had talked about wanting to fly.
"Don't listen to them," his parents said.
"You may look strange, but you are beautiful in spite of your wings."
Yes, he was.
And after a while,
He forgot that he even had those wings,
And they hung, forgotten,
Between his beautiful shoulders,
Like flowers from a lover
He never wanted.
I have two holes in my back
where my wings once were,
my house is littered with feathers
I dropped along the way.
They are iridescent, glimmering
and venerable,
yet distinctly human as they
hold in the grip of their
immutable awareness...
... me...
and the frozen reflection,
of what once was...
... and the song of
unspeakable heartache
of what can never be.
The Boy With Wings: A Tale of Forsaken Tranquility
When the boy with wings was born,
His mother and father cried
And told him they would love him
no matter what he looked like.
His doctor explained to them
That sometimes these mistakes occurred in nature,
For reasons no one knew.
"He will probably never walk,"
He told them.
"It is almost impossible for a child
With wings to learn to walk."
But his mother and father decided
At that moment that he WOULD walk;
that they would cure him of his wings;
That he would overcome this,
That he would lead a normal life.
So they took their son home,
And from the very first they told him
That he was no different from anyone else,
that he was not unique, that he was not special,
that he was just plain ordinary.
With their feet, they held him firmly to the ground,
And slapped him when he rose, quite naturally, into the air.
"You are strong."
And the little boy with wings grew,
And learned to walk, never flying.
And learned to speak, never singing
(As people with wings are supposed to do)
Sometimes he came home crying
Because other kids had talked about wanting to fly.
"Don't listen to them," his parents said.
"You may look strange, but you are beautiful in spite of your wings."
Yes, he was.
And after a while,
He forgot that he even had those wings,
And they hung, forgotten,
Between his beautiful shoulders,
Like flowers from a lover
He never wanted.
I have two holes in my back
where my wings once were,
my house is littered with feathers
I dropped along the way.
They are iridescent, glimmering
and venerable,
yet distinctly human as they
hold in the grip of their
immutable awareness...
... me...
and the frozen reflection,
of what once was...
... and the song of
unspeakable heartache
of what can never be.
"My candle burns at both ends; It will not last the night; But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends It gives a lovely light!"
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
Resume- Dorothy Parker
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
Resume- Dorothy Parker
