Something was Rustling in the Wheat Field

The moon was a fleeting,
still-born soul;
the quiet village kept, and
all seemed to be well...

The mothers had long since moved on, moved on
and villagers cared no more, no more,
and the river swept on, the minnows wiggled on discreetly
in the stream every night, as part of the scenery.

The cries that would never be heard were silenced,
the air that would never be breathed became cold;

the soul that wasn't there ascended into the sky
and began to rove with the invisible angels.

the village slept undisturbed, no longer aware,
but something was rustling in the wheat field.

The stars and the sky filled the allotted slot
as the dear child-- the moon's-- friends and foster family.

I Feel...

I feel like I am smiling
faintly and weakly; perhaps
I am awake in some artificial state.

I feel like I am asleep, but maybe, perhaps
I am being being preserved in
some insomniac capsule.

There is an air of content and dull
happiness
about me,
I wonder if it's real?
Genuine?

Or perhaps
I am drugged?

I want to write some pure, sweet poetry, like,
"... and everyone was happy,
within this moonlit melody,"

but all that comes to me is morbid
and wrong.

This is a weird state,
like play-dough,
like jell-o.

I'm sitting here and rotting in it all,
but I think there's a smile upon my lips.

ひきこもり by Night

Cradle and hold the unwell and sickly;
encourage and humble those who are not plagued;

I am one of the former group,
I am one of the dying.

My pain is not caused by my disease.
My pain is my disease.

"...like nocturnal animals, hikikomori grab what they need to [fill] their sheltered lives, and quickly return home before the morning light cracks and the working world reappears."

"Please Take Care of My Kitten, my Darling"

The one I love abandoned me.
She left me all alone in a cardboard box.

It was wet
and cold
in that December night when she did so,
as if the needles of rain would freeze where they fell,

and my box
(which I was left in)
became soggy with empty hopes
divorcing themselves from the sky.

I was nothing more than a mewling kitten, back then;
the box seemed ten feet tall and stretched upwards to the heavens;
it was bigger than me, and I was dwarfed by its might,
trapped, crying, and with fur that became sodden.

I was small,
vulnerable,
and kept apart from the world
by the walls of some odd container
(my box).

And try, try, and try as I might,
I was nothing more than a rabbit
trapped
in a snare,
a lonely, falsely accused prisoner.

For you see, at first, when I came to,
and found myself within that box
I clawed frantically
at its walls
with my little kitten claws,
and called for a savior to take me out of it
and adopt me;

no one ever came.

So I waited
and waited
--I could do no more than that--
and time crept onwards in my limited world.

Slowly, the stars
were fleshed out of the deep,
indigo night,

little flecks of hope
that were too far to touch.

I wondered if I would ever
be free
or happy
again,
and thought of the one I had loved.

The morning came, and the day passed, and
the next night arrived.
Still no one had come, and the stars
were still too far away.

The next morning came, and
the next day passed, and
the next night arrived.

Still no one came.
The stars were intangible,
and the pattern repeated
again and again.

Months, years;
all remained unchanging,
and I matured, an abandoned kitten into
a forsaken cat,
with hardened claws and
sharpened, bleached-white fangs.

One night,
as I lay
in the familiar, cramped space,
a shooting star crash-landed
atop of my kitty head.

I blinked
and yowled in surprise
upon impact;
I winced for a moment,
and I got a bit hurt.

But when I recovered,
I was amazed to see:
a star!
In my box!
A star I could reach!

It was beautiful
and round,
and though it had caused some pain
it proved to be sacred and precious indeed,
even more so than the first night they were visible.

And with that fallen star came,
to my shocked delight,
a warm, loving person
in that warm summer night.

She was different
and kind,
and reached with outstretched hands;
she picked me up and took me out of the box.

The fallen, brilliantly shining
star
illuminated
all within my line of vision.

That beautiful person gave me a home her heart
--by some strange and unlikely miracle-- and,
I worried no longer about the troubles of the past.

But just for a moment,
for a brief, solitary moment,
I thought of that gone, lovely face...
and wondered if she had ever loved me.

As we walked away from my prison,
me and my savior,

I looked back and saw a note attached
to the box.

"Please take care of my kitten, my Darling,
Please take care of my Love."

I Just Have to Go

there, I just have
to Go.

This desire has spiked,
this longing has hit it's peak;

I can take it no more.
I am going there, I must.

To quell my mind's thirst
and to soothe my heart's rage
I must go to this place

where I will dance in the streets
and speak
the tongue
of angels.

Where am I going, you may wonder
and ask?

I am going to the Land of the Bold yet Mild-Tempered.
I am going to the Land of the Connected by The Red String.
I am going to the Land where Everyone has a Friend.
I am going to the Land of the Foreign, but not Odd.
I am going to the Land where the People Will Get Me!

I just have to go to this land.

From all angles,
from all
Three-hundred-sixty degrees,
it is where I belong.

I will be one of
the brave
and the many,
I will be one of the
pioneers!

The journeying pioneers!

I'll set my feet to work
and walk across the oceans.
I'll set my hands to work
to bring about my means.

I am, even now, preparing for the day
when I can go to this place.

I am off
to the Land of My Dreams!

Thoughts on a Rainy Night:

Part 1: A Feeling I'm Used to:

It's okay,
but not really.

It never will be.

I smile upon the faces of hollow waste-bins,
I leap across the forest of worthless slum buildings,

I cry with humiliation at a sophisticated me, I
wish I could be more like her.

I really do wish
I wasn't such a crybaby;

I really do wish
it wasn't so hard...

But if the plip-plop of angel tears
beating quietly on my window
and the hurricane of the storm drain

have anything to say,

then they say,

"it's okay."

(But really, it's not.)

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Part 2: But who?

A reoccurring figure is
inhabiting my daydreams.

She occupies the memories that
I won't let myself remember.

But who is this person,
preoccupying my mind?

Is imaginary,
real,
--photoshopped?--
or a spirit?

The answer is simple,
and really quite sad.

She exists, but I just haven't found her yet.

She is the girl of my dreams.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(...) part 2

(Life)
.

(It is being robbed from me,)
(robbed)
(from my house as I sleep,)
(sleep,)

(thinking myself safe)
(in bed)
.

(Life is ticking away)
(as I wait)
(and sleep)
(and doze)
.

(I get up, out of bed)
.

(but nothing can mend)
(my empty heart)
.

(So empty)
.

(...)

(Amber is a nocturnal soul.)

(She talks about herself in third person and
writes things on her hands in the blackest of sharpies.)

(Amber is bored.)

(Amber has nothing better to do.)

(Goodnight, Amber.)

(Goodnight, hopes.)

(Goodnight, raving loneliness.)

(Goodnight, raving lowliness.)

As I Ponder my Solitude, the Eagle Dies.

It is quite sad.

I feel odd,
and solitary like
a dying,
once-proud eagle.

He once stood brave and proud, with wings
that scooped
up the heavens themselves.

A whole, spacious world,
with mountains and rivers
--a little bit chilly, but steadfastly beautiful--

existed under his feathers.

The eagle was always alone, however,
with the aforementioned universe seen from a birds-eye view.

He never came down to Earth.
I guess it was just fate, or cold feet
that willed him to remain apart.

It is quite sad.

Because the eagle is finally
dy-
ing,
after all these lone years,
dying all alone
(as custom for
this troubled one),

on the steepest of precipices
high above the world
of normalcy, one
of envious quality.

I look away; my smile falters; I am Smitten

I see a water-colored image.
But all of the watery colors are black
and gray.

I am not fully sure if this image is real,
dreamt,
or perhaps even photoshopped.

Still, the watery, wintry, translucent image
is beautiful,

if not a little dark.

Dingy lights shine
amidst the din.

Someone is standing there, but the colors
are too slurred to see the face.

All is shadowy in this odd watercolor.

It is a feminine figure.

And runny, thorned roses adorn its head.

The water-color is like a stain
on my brain.

I look away from it,
my hopeless dream.

My smile falters.

I am Smitten.

To any Victim of the Haitian Earthquake, any Family Member Thereof, or Anyone Relatedly Afflicted:

From a spoiled little white girl
in the heart of America
--the fatted, noisy cow forever kept from the slaughter--
comes this poem, to the poorest,
most unfortunate of people,

far closer to God than I will ever be.

My words are construed on the finest of devices
(as compared to the sodden, creaking cot that the dying,
sickly, wounded, or otherwise afflicted
lay their throbbing heads,

crying eyes,
ringing ears;
and nostrils flared
with the reek of death)

and my feet are kept warm with patterned,
purple slippers
(ridiculously decorated, as compared to the bare,
twisted, or otherwise crushed digits of the wound-
ed)
.

I spread this poem to the corners of the world,
and cast it out into the sea with the single stroke
of a key;

I make my voice heard and fear no reproach;
I sleep safe and warm within a prospering household.

I have a future, a school, the opportunity
for a job,
--and moreover, I have
so-called "dignity"--
--(and more interestingly, I have
so-called "equality")--

and society loves a spoiled,
white
American

girl.

I, however,
am far less cherished
in the eyes of my Savior.

Blessed be the ones who have died in this quake.
Do not let the light die, for He will
not forsake.

This is my world, as seen through a foggy window, when it's raining outside:

I am, for the most part,
not a part of this world,
nor am I a part of any other.

I belong, simply, to nothingness, not
to any one institution
or any one person.

No one knows just how deafening the silence can be
as it screeches and caterwauls,
gaining in slowly in decibles
every second of the day; as if

worsened on
particular intervals.

Yes, yes, it seems that

I am not dead,
yet I am not living.

That I am not asleep,
yet not fully awake.

That I am not in pain,
yet do not feel well.

That I am not frowning,
yet I am not smiling.

Yes, yes, it seems

that I am imprisoned
in a grayscale city bereft of its luster.

This is how "it" began.

Everything I do is like a disease.

One simple action manifests
itself
in the back of my mind.

The feelings of wholeness
and hapiness caused
by that one simple action

make me feel so good
and complete.

I can't get that action out of my head
or the way that it made me feel.

Still ignorant of its evils I
stoop to its wallows,
bend down to reach the bottom
of its pit.

I didn't know,
honest,
what I was doing,

but I had a feeling that it wasn't well.

Even still,
I didn't
know.

It became
commonplace,
my habit
and adiction;

But it began with just one
simple,
innocent,
ignorant action.