The end of the beginning

 

You know that dream...

 

The one where you stand

in front of a crowd,

naked as the day

you were born,

and you look down,

and back up again.

A crimson-shaded

ghost on a stage, burning red.

 

And the crowd have their hackles up,

Laughing maniacally, and they hold

shackles up, trying to tie you down.

 

Well, that was my life...

 

The crime? Being out

of sync with the structure

of society, walking in lines written

by bigger men than me,

or so I thought originally.

 

So, I complied...

 

I fell in line with the lie.

That to be, I had to not be.

I tried to be who I was “supposed” to be,

not to be a stain on humanity.

 

I gave my heart willingly,

and I never demanded anything.

Certainly not attention...

 

But then I found poetry.

 

And the mask

slipped from my face,

crashed to the ground

and smashed into a thousand fragments,

and now I stand on stage,

baring my soul for all to see.

 

Every emotion dropping to the floor,

the years of masks, the armour,

the shackles, and chains and more...

 

Naked.

 

Proud.

 

And no one laughs.

As I raise my voice loud,

as I lift my head into the clouds

and bask in the wonder.

 

Because I realised

that the layers I'd built

hid away this true me.

 

The one who loves to create, to play,

to share, to hold close those for whom I care.

 

And now I don't

turn beetroot red - I shine instead.

 

And I'm still different.

 

But I embrace that.

 

Every quirk,

every stumbled soundtrack.

Beginning of the end

 

You know that dream...

 

The one where you are

standing in front

of everyone, and as you

glance down then up,

you burn beetroot red.

Realising you are as naked

as the day you were born.

Then the laughter begins,

a wall of hyenas, cackling,

and you can feel your skin cracking,

and the tears starting to stream...

 

Well, that was childhood.

 

Every day brought that

feeling to the page. Every time

I spoke, every time I raised my hand,

every time I walked, or stood still,

every possible moment, good or bad,

tainted with that paint,

washed in that pain.

 

And my crime?

 

This is the question.

Was I a 2B pencil

in a world of pens?

All I know is that the erasers

were out in force, and my face

was drawn in scribbled lines.

Were the toothy grins

payback for some unconfirmed sin,

like the sin of being slightly different?

 

And by different, all I

really mean is unpopular.

 

They wouldn't have seen

the internal wiring going haywire,

or the fire in my head

when trying to connect simple threads.

But then, children are mean.

 

And I was public enemy number one.

To be or not to be,

a rose by another name,

a poet not a fighter,

a lover and a writer.

So, I layered on

the war paint, heavy cement,

and I dug in.

Survival instinct

 

I don't know how I survived school…

the bullying, the isolation,

the walls always closing in.

 

A mental prison whose doors

I couldn't ever unlock,

as I never understood

that my mind was the key.

 

I just stumbled through days.

A stay of execution, awaiting

the day they realise I'm faking it.

 

Trying not to speak,

not to say anything

in case it was turned back my way.

 

Or in case anyone was able

to see the flat, two-dimensional me

had no idea what he was doing.

 

Lessons leached away any brain power,

leaking. Struggling to comprehend

any meaning in anything anyone said or did.

 

Everything just washed over me.

 

So I'd sit glazed over, words soaking me,

as I gaze out of the window, at the rain pouring,

sloshing over my smoothed glass-like brain,

like the rivulets down the windowpane.

 

I couldn't hold it in.

Words floated near to my ears,

then drifted aimlessly away.

 

But somehow,

I caught brief snippets,

little fragments

that my brain stored away.

 

See, I've always had a strange mind.

 

Memories I need

are stored in a box

behind a locked door

labelled with a warning sign.

Whereas useless facts

spring forward

at almost any time.

Unless I actively need them.

 

A sponge wrung dry,

but the memories still remain.

 

But I always felt simple, naive,

lost, a set of instructions written

in alien tongue, but also a deep

intelligence somewhere hidden from

view. Just tied to the depths of my soul.

 

I don't know how I survived school.

 

I was in a daze

most of the days.

I'd be lost in my haze,

and nobody knew

I was running through

this maze, screaming

for someone to show me the way.