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Out of Control
Friday, September 19, 2008
Out of Control
The fight started with a few sharp words,
things you should never say with a lady present.
Then it became a shove, a push, a middle finger flashed, a threat made.
A punch, a curse.
Two bodies rolling on the ground,
fists flying, bones cracking.
And, the classic cliché, it starts to rain.
They’re not on the front lawn anymore,
now they’re in the street.
One boy grabs the other’s head, pushes with all his force,
the opponent is knocked out on the pavement.
I sit in my living room, across the street,
eyes on the immobile body lying in the street.
And to think this all started over the girl who now stands with the victor.
Too bad neither of them realizes that she’s dating half the town.
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Music=Survival
All these songs mean endless possibilities.
They twist my stomach and clench my heart,
the stories they tell, of lovers scorned, friends gone,
growing up, joy, your home, suicide, and hope.
Each story makes me breathe a little deeper, makes me think a little clearer.
Without the notes and the words that go in so deep
I don’t think I’d be who I am, because without music,
Without the stories,
there’s really no inspiration, no purpose, no guarantees.
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Alternate Plans
I spend my summer lying here, thinking of a million things I could be doing.
Instead of watching the alternate world of Soul Calibur play out before my eyes
and getting dizzy every time you duck and shoot
(because I hate that first person point of view camera angle.)
I close my eyes and think of the beach,
the hammock in my aunt’s backyard,
the library, and the stables up in the mountains.
I could be anywhere else, doing things of interest,
but instead I remain here, on your forest green sheets,
gunshots echoing out of the speakers.
I need an excuse to leave,
because anyone can see my lack of interest in the video game.
But then, when the mission is over and the auto play video starts
you turn to look at me.
I catch your eye and you smile.
You drop the controller on the couch
and walk over to the bed where I rest.
You place your hand on my back
and I crane my neck to look at you.
You smile again and I return it.
“Almost done,” you promise.
I nod, you kiss the top of my head, the video ends,
and you jump over the back of the couch and grab the controller.
Then it hits me, I don’t want alternate plans,
because as much fun as they may be,
they don’t include you.Labels: poetry, writing
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