Little People Storms

Thu, 06/27/2019 - 21:36 -- KatieN

A little person sits across from me

framed by the wall

Hands can't find a place to rest

and lips poised to speak.

Teetering on the edge of his seat.

 

This used to be me.

 

I remember

so many feelings

whipping around

like a storm at sea.

 

So many feelings

made of angry waters

streaked with melancholy blues

and impulsive bursts of yellows.

 

So many feelings

it felt as though

it would burst through every crevice

if I'm not careful.

 

So many feelings

I had to force

into the confines of language–

to filter through the sieve of my teeth.

 

So many feelings

I just wanted to lash out and bite.

 

So many feelings I’d learned

to mold and shape

into small, even pieces

to place in neat boxes

with pretty bows.

 

But this little person

didn't have boxes

(not to mention bows).

 

Before I could open my mouth,

A crack

followed by another and another.

 

In a magnificent crash,

the dam erupted and

emotions came bursting out

from his mouth and soul,

in broken parts and overflowing words.

His voice cracked

as it struggled

to hold the pounding–

words drumming out a chaotic beat

with no pattern or order of any kind.

Pure red contempt poured out

through his fists

and scrunched up his expressions.

He fought back invisible enemies

in every direction–

acting as though he’d go against God himself.

 

Then in great defeat,

he delivers a final blow.

The dam’s reserves are exhausted

and the little person

framed by the wall

lies sprawled on the ground.

 

I must admit,

no matter how draining

and destructive it was,

there was a sort of beauty to it.

Some sort of purity

to thrusting raw feelings out into the world

without a care.

A chaos that left

a sense of satisfaction

no amount of boxes or bows

could ever possibly hold.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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