I was cleaning my computer when I found old poems that I once wrote in hopes of getting published, though I never sent them. I uploaded them (most likely, others will follow), some unpolished and others, just barely.
She’s from the streets.
I don’t call her a girl though she looks like one; girls still have innocence.
I look straight into her eyes but she just turns them to the side.
She doesn’t tell why she doesn’t smile.
She just looks away and lets me finish.
I once met a kid who wanted to kill himself. He spoke with his eyes.
They told me he had lost the will to carry on. The shield—black shirts, anger and spiked boots—could hold on no more. This thing called life beat, bruised and battered him far beyond his strength.
Some say there’s no need to back out.
After all, we’re thrown into this mash of harsh words, broken promises and lousy fucks to learn, to live, to learn to live.
He snapped back at me, whipping his neck and flicking his fingers, “what do you know?” He did his best tough guy impression. It’s funny. Hell, I probably don’t know shit. But I’m not backing away from a war that’s all his own.
Just snap out of it, no one’s going to fight for you.
He shook his head, trembled or convulsed, I couldn’t tell. He leaned forward, his red and stingy. I leaned closer, almost fogging up his face, and it was then that I heard it.
Yes, no one will fight for you. But you’re lucky enough to see that. For dying is only reserved for those who lived.
There was a break in his breathing. The break that told me all.
Have you lived?
He pulled the knife away from his tender wrists and inched back.
No? Well, start.
I looked into the mirror and inched back.