That girl who always belittled you.
See her face?
I'm not talking about her, but her friend.
The one who was always kind.
One day the friend pulls you aside.
You are thrilled.
She's not bullying you.
She says "No one likes you, you know."
"Yes, no one likes you.
They all fake it.
We all hate you.
And she shows you thousands of screenshots.
Rolling like a slot machine.
Except when they stop, it is clear.
They all do hate you.
You have no friends.
And with a smile, she saunters away.
The coach stood fuming in front of the twenty hardy bodies she was commanded to mold.
"I said varsity runners were to come today. Not you junior people. Just wait till I get my hands on those hoes. It was supposed to be everyone with a sub 6 minute mile seed."
"Oh grow up and stop rooting for only those who are good runners already." Everyone glanced nervously at the youngest runner on the team. "Just because you don't dig our times doesn't mean that you should water down our accomplishments."
The coach stopped and glowered at the girl who dared disrespect her. "You have confidence in spades, I have to admit. But you just don't work hard enough to see the fruit of your labors. Twenty sit-ups, now."
Sweat flowered on the girl's forehead as she did what the coach had ordered.
I have never been published. To be fair, I am quite young, much younger than most people on this site. However, I often feel as though I'm running out of time. Writing means that my ideas will remain on this earth; if not longer than I live, at least longer than I believe in them.
Therefore, to be published means that someone else values my ideas enough to put money behind them, and believes that others will as well. Validation from others in that form would be a sweet thing.
It would also mean that I could (perhaps exclusively) trade ideas for money, which admittedly occurs in just about every white-collar profession, but I think with writing it happens in its purest form.
Right now I am vanilla bean
As I prepare for life unseen
By most. The rich in gilded halls
Look down on my dark-colored hull
They think me Greek and wonder how
Dark hair lives unbleached with fair brow.
The poor look at my fancy name
And think of whereabouts it came
"Pretension, perhaps, or rudeness?
Anywho, she looks down on us."
And everyone finds me boring.
But no one cracks the hull. And spring
Is ending and I must away
To go to school and seize the day.
And live a life where everyone thinks
That either I wear trash or minks.
No room for error here
One strike is all I have
The lineup arrives
Mice approach from their mounds
I uncoil from my dugout
Silently awaiting a meal
They balk at my body
Scored with pitch-black diamonds
Alas, they are too wound-up
I slump back
No catch for me
My plate empty
Palate devoid of fur-balls
Time for my battered body to rest
What is justice?
Justice is poisonous.
So what if I fought against her?
She would have died eventually.
All I did was put to sword the grape that would become raisin.
Oh don't give me those horrified
Those puppy eyes.
I savored it.
Don't you see?
All is fair in love and war
Laugh over my injured body.
"This is the scale of justice," they tell me.
"Don't ignore your sins.
You should be afraid."
I shan't begin to explain why this makes no sense to me.
The apple of my eagle eye lent her flavor to another.
Thus the bulb of her life is forfeit.
Why then does their justice take precedence over mine?
Three High School Convos Happening Simultaneously
"I'm trying to study for chem. Trying not to fail chem."
"OMG he has such a perfect bod"
"Remember what the formula is - just divide decimals by 10"
"Ugh I had Mr. T last year. Would not want him next year."
"Ok say it's 300 hertz. If you're looking at... um..."
"Are you a tutor?"
"Yeah, for Algebra 2."
"I'm saying if you're moving 50 and those cars are moving with you at 80, their net movement is 30, so treat you like this."
"Between Chem and Physics there are so many Ks. Kp, Ka, Kb, Kw, K spring constant, etc. etc."
"Wait can you print the slides?"
"Um no I don't feel like it."
Cloverleaf interchanges whizzing by
I reach for my bag and snag a potato fry
Forehead ash mixing with cigarette dust
Priestly blessings patted on and lost
I'm brewing myself luck
Trucking myself a blessing
Jigsaw my heart into pieces
Someday I'll go home
Legend has it that cash is green
My favorite color of the rainbow