Picture This

11.55pm. Train station. The train pulls in.

(Boy X steps onto the train. He is alone. It is nearing midnight, and the train is near completely empty. He takes a seat, angling his body to the side to lean. He is in a lonely mood, and the only other voice in the train belongs to the metallic reminders of the train PA. He peers to his side, the seat next to him has the words “RESERVED SEAT” plastered over them. “Reserved for who?”, he muses.)

License for depression

The only house by the sea
Eastend Villa 001

30/2/2009

Mr. Stell Goldhart
Minister of Emotions
Department of the Ministry of Emotions
Skyterrace Lane 9

Dear Sir,

Re : Application for a License for depression

I write this letter solely because I wish to apply for a license for depression.

As you can probably see from the attached resume, I am in full awareness that I do not quantitatively qualify for the requirements that were listed upon the official brochure. I faithfully admit that I have never been heartbroken, never broken someone else’s heart.(to my personal recollection), never lost a closed one and never been severely emotionally or mentally hurt.

Yet, I still wish to formally request for the approval of this application, because of the fact that I’m confused, with no where else to turn. I’m neither happy or content, neither at peace or in harmony. As of now, I’m not yearning for any specific one’s attention, or current enthralled in the membrance anyone’s gaze. I have been questioned, but never abused; been accused, but never convicted; been frustrated, but never begrudged; been squeezed, but never throttled.

I only came here as a last resort, because I have no idea what emotion I should legally be having. Is there an emotion for being emotionless? It there were, I believe that you would not know of it either. Take me as a stressed student, or some raving teenager. You may put me down, throw my persona aside, but do not ignore my plea. I earnestly hope that you would consider my application seriously.

I pessimistically wait for your reply. Thank you.

Yours sincerely,
Bicko

And the old man sighed, and mumbled under his breath. He took out a template, and began to transcribe, ‘I regret to inform you…’

Cacti

This is why we never say what we truly desire.

A sonnet for you

Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you planned:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

-Christina Rossetti

The Quiet World

In an effort to get people to look
into each other’s eyes more,
and also to appease the mutes,
the government has decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.

When the phone rings, I put it to my ear
without saying hello. In the restaurant
I point at chicken noodle soup.
I am adjusting well to the new way.

Late at night, I call my long distance lover,
proudly say I only used fifty-nine today.
I saved the rest for you.

When she doesn’t respond,
I know she’s used up all her words,
so I slowly whisper I love you
thirty-two and a third times.
After that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.

-Jeffrey McDaniel

There is no happy ending for everyone in the world

And you can’t disprove it.

Hello, I’d like to tell you something

-thresca.tumblr.com

I found the message, are you weird enough to be my recipient?

What-is-life?

So lets all smile so ignorantly
as do we labour so incessantly
for those little slips of achievement
stamped black and white in parchment
that supposedly assure us of our future;
yet ironically,
are so insignificant in our lives.

Absolutely Nothing

Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it ‘Chops’
because that was the name of his dog
And that’s what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and a gold star
And his mother hung it on the kitchen door
and read it to his aunts
That was the year Father Tracy
took all the kids to the zoo
And he let them sing on the bus
And his little sister was born
with tiny toenails and no hair
And his mother and father kissed alot
And the girl around the corner sent him a
Valentine signed with a row of X’s
and he had to ask his father what the X’s meant
And his father always tucked him in bed at night
And was always there to do it.

Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it ‘Autumn’
because that was the name of the season
And that’s what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and asked him to write more clearly
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because of its new paint
And the kids told him
that Father Tracy smoked cigars
And left butts on the pews
And sometimes they would burn holes
That was the year his sister got glasses
with thick lenses and black frames
And the girl around the corner laughed
when he asked her to go see Santa Claus
And the kids told him why
his mother and father kissed alot
And his father never tucked him in bed at night
And his father got mad
when he cried for him to do it.

Once on a paper torn from his notebook
he wrote a poem
And he called it ‘Innocence: A Question’
because that was the question about his girl
And that’s what it was all about
And his professor gave him an A
and a strange steady look
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because he never showed her
That was the year Father Tracy died
And he forgot how the end
of the Apostle’s Creed went
And he caught his sister
making out on the back porch
And his mother and father never kissed
or even talked
And the girl around the corner
wore too much makeup
That made him cough when he kissed her
but he kissed her anyway
because that was the thing to do
And at 3am he tucked himself into bed
his father snoring soundly.

That’s why on the back of a brown paper bag
he tried another poem
And he called it ‘Absolutely Nothing’
Because that’s what it was really all about
And he gave himself an A
and a slash on each damned wrist
And he hung it on the bathroom door
because this time he didn’t think
he could reach the kitchen.

-Osoanon Nimuss

I guess this is what you made me

A 21st Century poem

Just because it belongs to our time, doesn’t mean it belongs to us