Collections of Poems
- Locked due to inactivity on Aug 4, '16 4:37pm
Thread Topic: Collections of Poems
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Most of these probably will not be mine. They will be written by someone with talent, and most often a slam poem. I'll give credit to whomever is the author, of course.
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It doesn't matter why I was there,
Where the air is sterile and the sheets sting.
It doesn't matter that I was hooked up to this thing
that buzzed and beeped every time my heart leaped
like a man whose faith tells him
God's hands are big enough to catch an airplane,
or a world.
It doesn't matter that I was curled up like a fist
protesting death,
or that every breath was either hard labour or hard time,
or that I'm either always too hot or too cold
It doesn't matter
because my hospital roommate wears Star Wars pajamas,
and he's nine years old.
His name is Louis,
and I don't have to ask what he's got.
The bald head with the skin and bones frame speaks volumes.
The Gameboy and the feather pillow booms
like they're trying to make him feel at home
because he's going to be here for awhile.
I manage a smile the first time I see him
and it feels like the biggest lie I have ever told,
so I hold my breath
because I'm thinking any minute now he's going to call me on it.
I hold my breath because I'm scared of a fifty-seven pound boy
hooked up to a machine
because he's been watching me
and maybe I've got him pegged all wrong,
like maybe he's bionic or some s---.
So I look away like I just made eye contact with a gang member
whose got a rap sheet the length of a lecture
on dumb mistakes politicians have made.
I look away like he's going to give me my life back
the moment I've bot something to trade
I damn near pull out my pack and say
"Cigarette?"
But my fear subsides in the moment I realize
Louis is all show and tell.
He's got everything from a shotgun shell
to a crowfoot
and he can put them all in context.
Like,
"See, this is from a shooting range!"
and
"See, this is from a weird girl!"
I watch his hands curl around a cuff-link and a tie-tack
and realize that every nick-nack is a treasure
and every treasure has a story,
and every time I think I can't handle more
he hits me with another story
he says,
"See, this is from my father."
"See, this is from my brother."
"See, this is from that weird girl."
"See, this is from my mother."
Took me about two days to figure out that
this weird girl is his sister.
It took him about two hours today
after she left
for him to figure out he missed her.
They visit everyday,
and stay well past visiting hours
because for them that term doesn't apply.
But when they do leave, Louis and I are left alone, and he says,
"The worst part about being sick
is that you get all the free ice cream you ask for."
And he says,
"The worst part about that
is realizing there is nothing more they can do for you.
Ice cream can't make everything okay."
And there is no easy way of asking,
and I now what he's going to say,
but maybe he just needs to say it,
so I ask him anyway.
"Are you scared?"
Louis doesn't even lower his voice when he says
"f--- yeah."
I listen to a nine year old boy
say the word f---
like he was a thirty year old man
with a nose-bleed
being lowered into a shark tank.
He's got a right to it.
And if it takes this kid a curse word to help him get through it,
then I want to teach him to swear
like the devil's sitting there
taking notes with a pen and a pad.
But before I can forget that Louis is nine years old he says,
"Please don't tell my dad."
He asks me if I believe in angles.
And before I realize I don't have the heart to tell him,
I tell him
"Not lately."
And I just lay there
waiting for him to hate me,
but he doesn't know how to,
so he never does.
Louis loves like a man who lived
in a time before God gave religion to men
and left it to them to figure out what hate was.
He never greets me with silence,
only smiles
and a patience I've never seen
in someone who knows they're dying.
And I'm trying so hard not to remind him
I'll be out of here in a couple days,
smoking cigarettes
and taking my life for granted,
and He'll still be planted in this bed
like a flower that refuses to grow.
I've been with him for five days
and all i really know
is that Louis loves to pull feathers out of his pillow,
then watch them float to the ground,
almost as if he's the philosopher inside of the scientists ready to say
"It's gravity that's been getting us down."
The truth is,
there is not enough miracles to go around kid,
and there's too many people
petitioning God for the winning lotto ticket.
And for every answered prayer,
there's a cricket with arthritis.
And the only reason we can't find answers
is because the search party didn't invite us
and Louis,
right now the crickets have arthritis.
So there is no music,
no symphony of nature
swelling to crescendos,
as if ripping halos into melodies that can keep a rhythm
with the way our hearts beat.
So we must meet silence
with the same level of noise that the parents
of dying nine year old boys make
when they take liberties in talking with heaven.
We must shout
until we shatter in our own vibrations,
then let our lives echo and grow,
echo and grow,
grow distant.
Distant enough to know that
as far as our efforts go,
we don't always get a reply.
But I swear to whatever God I can find
in the time that I have left,
I'm going to remember you kid.
I'm going to tell your story
as often as every story you told me
and every time I tell it,
I'll say;
"See, there's bravery in this world.
There's 6.5 billion people
curled up like fists
protesting death,
but every breath we breathe has to be given back.
A nine year old boy taught me that."
So hold your breath
the same way you'd hold a pen
when writing thank you letters on your skin
to every tree that gave you that breath to hold.
And then let it go,
as if you understand something about getting old
and having to give back.
Let it go like a laugh attack
in the middle of really good sex,
the black eye will be worth it.
Because what is your night
worth without a story to tell?
And why wield a word like worth
if you've got nothing to sell?
People drop pennies down wishing wells,
so the cost of a desire
is equal to that of a thought.
But if you've got expectations,
expect others have bought your exact same dream
for the price of a hard work
hang in
hold on
mentality.
Like,
I accept any challenge,
so challenge me!
Like,
I brought a knife to this gun fight,
but the other night
i mugged a mountain!
So bring that s---!
I've had practice!
Louis and I cracked this world wide open
and found that the prize inside
is we never lied to ourselves,
we never told ourselves that we'd be easy or undemanding.
So we sing in our own vibration,
and dare angles to eavesdrop
and stop mid-flight to pluck feathers from their wings
and write demands
that God's hands take the time to catch you.
So that
even if God doesn't
it wasn't because we didn't try.
I don't often believe in angles,
but on the day I left,
Louis pulled a feather from his pillow
and said;
"This is for you."
I half expected him to say,
"See, this is the first one I grew."
-Shane Koyczan, The Crickets Have Arthritis
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