This is Ridiculous
by Cassie Wilkinson
I despise the kitchen table.
I can’t write,
I can’t think,
I can’t concentrate.
It’s where all frustration lay.
Arguments, lectures, even tears
get drawn at the kitchen table.
12 mismatched chairs,
One long table
that seems to be as long as the Susquehanna River.
The walls of the kitchen
strike me as eerie,
Painted a dark brick color
and the ceiling a pale gray.
The counters and cabinets
seem to stick out like a sore thumb
because of their green and white colors.
A fire place, the center of attention,
Is made of cold black stone.
The floor constructed of wood
and the kitchen table lay on top.
This is where I become
caged, tied to the chair with cinderblock feet
forced to write,
Longing just to migrate to somewhere less depressing,
Such as outside in the hammock.
I’m angered by how I can never
contemplate, appreciate, or even communicate
at the kitchen table.
This is ridiculous; almost irrational.
12 chairs, 12ft table, and clutter lay on top;
A flowery pattern for a table cloth.
Books, papers, bills,
Homework, laptops, mail,
Magazines, clothes, cat hair,
Flower petals, pencils, pens,
All lay upon the kitchen table.
There are 3 people in my family
my mom, my dad, and I.
Such a small family
for such a large table,
We never eat there anyway.
It’s so depressing and repetitive
sitting in the same chair
forced to work on school papers.
A mile long table and I sit at the end.
I feel so terribly lonely sitting
at the kitchen table.
Where I’m From
I’m from “Comfortably Numb”.
From loud music and low income.
Locking myself in my room,
And writing all my worries away.
I’m from the fast beat of my heart,
Keeping me awake as I try to fall asleep.
My thoughts dwell and well in my dreams.
I am from laid back and easy going.
The lack of perfection makes us who we are.
I’m from the moments that last a life time.
No longer lingering in memory,
As if this life time could end unexpectedly.
I’m from a poor family with a rich attitude.
They’re support is wha keeps me sane.
If only everyone could be that kind.
I’m from the loss of a close friend,
Forever rest in peace.
I’m from a caring and gracious God.
From his book of guide lines,
That none of us seem to follow.
I’m from an individualistic realm.
Why try to be like everyone else;
When no one is created to be exactly alike?
A Poem is a Poem
The faintest beat of a heart.
Alone. Sufficient. Relaxed.
The unknowing of the world,
Suddenly becomes known within a poem.
A dark sweater, pretty flowered dresses.
Pain and sorrow to happiness and caresses.
A poem is whatever you create it to be.
It could be ugly or beauteous.
Floating above all odds,
In the sky far up there.
Shooting for the moon,
And never the same as anyother star.
Pencil. Pen. Marker.
Choose your weapon,
And play with the words on paper.
Just drift away in thought.
Write about your hope,
And everything in-between.
No need for facts,
Nor do you have to lie.
You could dream up a fantasy,
Or tell about your life.
A poem is an emotion,
Stored under a rock,
Lost deep within the forest.
The only way to find it,
Is to get it down on paper.
A poem is a poem,
No matter how little,
No matter how thurrow.
Your Ill Will
Bring the rain.
Give me your pain.
You live in vain.
I think I’m going insane.
Your love, a sliver…
Change like a river.
May I serve you dinner?
Mind, sensitive to touch.
You don’t talk much.
No need to rush.
Smile to a frown,
You look only down,
And I drown
within your sorrow.
Forgive me tomorrow.
For what I’m about to do
will maim me more than you.
Don’t speak just chew.
Old Habits Die Hard
By Cassie Wilkinson
“Won’t you ever learn?” Mother bellowed at me. Her forehead crinkled and her worry lines became blunt on her face. She looked haggard; time had taken its toll upon her. I can’t believe she was so upset about how I, her 25-year-old daughter, was getting back into my old drug habits.
“I’d only learn if you would’ve done your job as a parent and raised me right!” I yelled, not realizing how this would affect her. After the argument, I angrily stormed out of her apartment (I never should’ve left though).
Mother bewildered by my words, walked over to her ancient, rocking chair in the living room and sat in it for hours; focusing, dwelling, and weeping over what I had said. It’s almost as if my words had haunted her.
I came back that night to discover that she wasn’t home. Her rocking chair was bare and the rest of the apartment was in ruins. The setting seemed so bleak. Looking back, I was oblivious when she climbed on the top of her apartment-building, only to descend from there to the macadam at the bottom. This was many years ago but it seems like just yesterday when I was stricken by this information.
From the few years of being sober, I now realize that words seem so harmless when you don’t mean them but can be taken to literally by the receiver. I believe that she didn’t commit suicide that night… I murdered her with my libretto.