Little People Storms
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.