Hello mr doctor man,
will you take away my pills?
You’ve done all you can,
To rid me of my chills.
Hello mr doctor sir,
Will you take away my pain?
Give me something to blur,
And make the feeling wane?
Hello misses doctor ma’am,
Will you change my medicine?
I have too many things to cram,
And I’m too tired to begin.
Hello misses doctor lady
Will you admit me please?
I think I’m going crazy,
I can’t tell my shoulder from my knee.
Hello my self restraint.
Will you please keep your post?
I’ve begun to feel so faint,
A victim of my host.
Good bye my little bottle,
Prescription be your name.
As I go full throttle,
And swerve into dead end’s lane.
Almost everyone is quick to say to not judge a book by its cover, however, does that mean we aren’t judged just because we shouldn’t be? My school has a uniform policy, khakis and collared shirts. I suppose it’s hard to not look remotely professional in that attire, unless of course I’m wearing cargos and a hoodie over my polo. Other students seem more comfortable when I wear that. I blend in and go unnoticed, and sometimes, that’s how I like it. When the hoodie comes off and my shorts, or pants in this case since it’s cold, become less baggy and more fitted, a few people notice, teachers look at me for answers rather than questions. Occasionally when I answer my Girly side and wear a skirt and blouse with flats, maybe a ribbon in my hair, a lot of people look. I’m different from the crowd. When I wear a skirt, I no longer do it for solely my Girly side. Now, a skirt (not a short one, just a skirt) is a “I’m kind of down today and turning a few heads would make it a better day” kind of thing. Today, I’m wearing a blazer. I look professional. I anticipated the more laid back students would feel odd talking to me if they didn’t know me. I look like I have somewhere to be, something to do, and they don’t know how to react. I expect teachers will turn there heads today, grow more fond of me, that never hurts. I’m eager to find out. Everything I wear will result in a different reaction. Before I have a chance to do anything, to say anything, I am judged by my attire. We live in a world of hypocrites, hypocrites and fabrics that define you.
Ten minutes? What could I possibly write in ten minutes… Er well type rather. It only took one minute for me to realize then that ten minutes can very well change your life. In less than ten minutes I found out about my parent’s divorce. In less than ten minutes I made two of best friends in elementary school who I still see today.
Time will never correspond with the importance of a moment. Time will be drawn out over the bad times and short and sweet for the good times. Your life, your goals, they can all change in less than ten minutes. The best and worst moments of your life may come and go in less than a minute. The seconds passing, the minutes on the verge of goodbye, the hours I will soon sleep away, those are possibilities. The clock ticks with opportunity and tocks with change. Who we are and who we’ll become may very well change in the next ten minutes.
Maybe Disney had it all wrong. Maybe there is no true Prince Charming. My sister once told me love wasn’t about finding a perfect someone, it was finding someone whose flaws you could handle. I accepted that. Recently however, I came to realize how often your flaws are claimed to be accepted and then your prince tries to buff and paint over all the scratches he claimed to know and love. After this continuously happened I had to wonder, were my scratches THAT bad. Were my flaws so prominent that they could not be forgiven? He had flaws and they didn’t bother me. Maybe no one ever told him that no one is and no one will ever be perfect. I suppose one day he’ll learn. As these young men went to buffing and painting they lost their crown and it was given to someone else. Sometimes I was guilty of assuming I could live with flaws that I knew I could never accept. I broke a heart that way. It wasn’t a very serious flaw, he was just boring. I’ve yet to find my prince, maybe I’m looking too hard, but it doesn’t really matter. The little lesson my sister taught me soon came to apply to a lot of things, Happiness, for example. Being happy isn’t about making everything perfect. Being happy is about finding those disappointments we can live with and putting less energy into preventing them. It’s about chasing that one thing that makes the butterflies swirl around in your stomach and the little blue birds tweet melodiously and slightly cloying. After all, if there were no disappointments, happiness would have little value, the blissful moments would be ordinary and every guy would be a prince.
Is it wrong to want to die? We all die in the end, it’s inevitable. Is it such a terrible thing to give up the desire to continue in the massive world full of misfortune and heartache. Sure, there are days of happiness, but for every ray of sunshine there will be two rain clouds, and they don’t balance out anymore.
Is it so wrong to end the game before the hourglass runs out of sand? It has to end soon enough. If only pain and agony hold your hand, and happiness is lost at sea, Is it so wrong to throw the dice before your turn has come, Or better yet to claim defeat before the fat lady has sung?
I don’t want to carry on. I don’t want to get out of bed. I don’t want to go to class. I don’t want to study for hours or do homework. I don’t even want to do the things I used to claim to love. There’s nothing left for me excluding death. Society frowns on that word, death. I can’t begin to understand why. It rings with tranquility. It’s the end. The story’s over, the prince found the princess and the the villain was defeated. Now the kids are off to bed and everyone lived happily ever after. The end. I hate it when death is treated like a tragedy. Everyone dies. No one makes it out alive. Death is not a catastrophe. Death is normal and natural. And is it so wrong to want to be normal?
Even if I have to break the glass?
I love Christmas shopping, or more so watching Christmas shopping.The bench in the mall is my balcony seat, the stores my stages, and the people my actors. The middle-aged man uncomfortably walking around in Victoria Secret who bashfully denies assistance just to ask for help a few minutes later and the woman in heels with blonde highlights and Coach purse clueless as to what anything that isn’t a hammer is inside the hardware shop drive amusement into my holiday.
Christmas is a holiday of displacement. All of the shoppers play musical chairs and find themselves in an unknown environment. The ones they cherish have them standing in a situation much like walking into the wrong bathroom and the only consolation is knowing that they’re also helplessly confused by the unfamiliarity.
The pressures on. It’s a scavenger hunt to find the best gift, or at least one they don’t return. There’s always that one gift that ends up hidden from the world or sent back to the store, and no one wants to be the one to give that gift, so for the holiday season men roam boutiques and women scavenge through Auto shops, hopelessly lost, but equally humorous.