Indecisive
by Jennifer Kizzee
Being away from home has me feeling obsolete
It is as if each time I try I can’t compete.
Time is passing me by,
I ask myself, why?
Why am I feeling this way?
Each passing day I say, “Tomorrow will be a better day.”
Obstacles with school and life continue to be here
I know soon that everything in my mind will be clear.
Clear of confusion and disillusion
But it seems like I steady put myself in seclusion
I know growing up brings responsibility
How can I handle that with all my built up hostility
I know I should be open to change;
Just thinking about it makes me feel so deranged
Sometimes I just want to pack up and leave
But if I do, I won’t achieve my dream of getting a degree
That is something I’ve always wanted
And if I don’t get it, in my mind I will be forever haunted.
A Side of Argument
by Reshard Horne
It stings. It hurts. It burns.
Help me I can’t stop it.
Understand me. Empathize with me.
Whatever you say makes it worse.
Are you happy?
My chest feels like it is ready to explode
And my heart has dislodged itself into my stomach.
Lungs are grasping for air.
Mouth lacks moisture.
Pulse reverberating louder and louder.
Eyes burning.
Tears sting my eyes in anticipation for me breaking down.
Are you happy now?
I’m not crazy
I’m not overreacting
I’m not being damned dramatic.
I want you to know that I care
But you are so angry, you can’t feel me.
Your voice beats me like a bat over my head.
Wordy attempts to program me are frustrating.
I can’t hear anymore.
The words - garbled
The meaning - lost
STOP telling me what I mean!
I know what I mean when I say…
I know what I mean when I…
I know what I mean when…
I know what I mean.
How can this end?!
Make it go away.
You won’t because you can’t feel me and you want this.
My Worlds Trade
by Kelli Bray
The automated sound of the alarm clock buzzed in my ears. This time, six A.M. didn’t sound so bad. I can recall the wide grin on my face, there with good reason: it was my 17th birthday. I gathered myself and prepared for school as Archie Bunker told Edith to stifle it, just as he did every morning between six and six thirty when our television tuned us into the classic sitcom, “All In The Family.”
As I walked to school on that crisp September morning I was elated, contemplating the day’s affairs, my jean skirt rolled at the waist to expose more of my bare legs. At the point in my life between a child and a woman, a sneak preview seemed fair enough.
Hormone-geared teenagers flooded the building living not yet for a cause but driven by life nonetheless. Chatter filled the hallway like a million echoes. The clash of metal on metal heard as the locker doors slammed. Sneakers squeaked against waxed floors as feet shuffled into classrooms where teachers demanded attention of our rebellious minds. The bell rang signaling change as I proceeded to biology class.
The minutes of class became monotonous as we continued our overview of the human endocrine system, sketching human bones. We held the bones of the dead in our hands as Ms. Neighbors answered the classroom telephone. Stunned she cut on the overhead television making us all aware of reality outside the four walls. Thick clouds of smoke escape out of the building like steady streams. Over and over the footage of the plane is shown as the newscasters attempt to make sense of what had just happened. Silence fell over the classroom. My six A.M. smile faded and my stomach knotted with guilt as I saw the flames shoot out of the tower. Minutes later screams were heard as the second plane hit. Chaos. Confusion. Grief. Guilt. Why today? This was my day. I had plans! Should I continue with my regularly scheduled program? Is it still alright to smile? Am I still allowed to enjoy this day?
It was inevitable that school let out. With southern Connecticut being only one hour away from New York the crisis had hit too close to home. We were given an early dismissal from school to collect our families assuring their safety and turn our attention to the events still currently taking place. Although aching over the disaster occurring about the crumbling sky scrapers, I selfishly arrived home to call my significant other making plans to get together. Five years in the making, our on again off again relationship had built up to something of a mystery. Unbeknownst to everyone else we had been seeing each other for quite some time however, my mother thought I was going to visit with his sister. And I did, for a moment. His sister and I sat in living room and gazed at the television in disbelief of our great city’s misfortune. Moments later he walked in. After a small meet and greet the sister had disappeared into the house, no doubt knowing that, for lack of a more caring term, it was about to go down.
Inside those four walls I traded my reality for lusty fantasies and cheap thrills. As the news played in the living room our own soundtrack of grunts, kisses and low moans played. I was told to relax, to loosen up. It wouldn’t be bad, wouldn’t hurt, he had done this before. The experienced teacher all too eager to lead the green, naïve student. In all honesty I remember doing more thinking than thrusting. Overwhelmed by a guilty conscience rather than guilty pleasure. Contemplating the condom breaking and the possibility of creating a life as another life ends. Hoping that I wasn’t the only one having sex, partaking in such a dirty activity at such a crucial time in life. I should have been praying for souls lost instead of using the Lord’s name in vain to complement our naughty act. But I was praying. Begging God not to hate me because this had to be a sin. Of course it’s a sin! But its timing was wrong and down-right rude. Begging forgiveness throughout the act as if I were merely a puppet, a naïve student, a teacher’s pet.
Needless to say that school didn’t last long. The build-up of passion in our relationship inevitably caused its demise. We gradually fell apart, our mystery was solved and for the best we ended things. But the guilt stayed with me. I refused to celebrate my birthdays after that, feeling that I had in some way offended those that lost their lives on that terrible day. That I somehow added to the pain. I didn’t deserve to be happy. I don’t believe I cried that day. I don’t recall a tear slamming to the ground like the towers. The guilt caused me to feel empty, hollow. I traded my worlds. Lost my innocence. Gained a burden far heavier to bear.
It wasn’t until five years later on the day of remembrance in 2006 that I brought myself to watch the video on YouTube. Some unfortunate New Yorker captured the footage of the attack. The flames licked the Twin Towers with relentless lust. A thick, gray stream of smoke leading to the heavens. Maybe the route for those souls already gone, lives already lost. White cloths flapping in the wind outside of the windows. Signs of life. Cries for help. Limbs hanging out of windows as the survivors of the explosion try to escape the intense heat. Bodies leaping out of the building and falling to the ground. I imagine them repeating Hail Marys, praying last prayers as they fall hundreds of feet to an untimely and inescapable death. Tears roll down my cheeks and fall in jagged patterns like pieces of the towers as the buildings collapse and come crashing down. As self-punishment I played the footage, watched the crash, heard the screams, and relived the day, as if paying my respects. Coming to grips with the reality that I dodged those years ago. I shut down the computer and came away feeling better, lighter, guilt lifted. My world once again traded.
A year later in 2007 I struggle with the day, as I would imagine others still do. I feel torn between happiness on my day of celebration and sadness in a day of mourning. In a lame attempt to make light of the situation I consider that one day my birthday will be a holiday-- at least I won’t have to work. This birthday I smiled. At first the smile was forced but I came to realize that life continues. The earth hasn’t stopped moving and I am still told by saints that God has a divine plan for my life---so I guess I’m in the clear. A friend from New York, another from New Jersey and me gather together in a tiny I-Hop booth at midnight to celebrate my birthday. We take pictures, eat and talk about home sharing memories as survivors of another day.
by Jennifer Kizzee
Being away from home has me feeling obsolete
It is as if each time I try I can’t compete.
Time is passing me by,
I ask myself, why?
Why am I feeling this way?
Each passing day I say, “Tomorrow will be a better day.”
Obstacles with school and life continue to be here
I know soon that everything in my mind will be clear.
Clear of confusion and disillusion
But it seems like I steady put myself in seclusion
I know growing up brings responsibility
How can I handle that with all my built up hostility
I know I should be open to change;
Just thinking about it makes me feel so deranged
Sometimes I just want to pack up and leave
But if I do, I won’t achieve my dream of getting a degree
That is something I’ve always wanted
And if I don’t get it, in my mind I will be forever haunted.
A Side of Argument
by Reshard Horne
It stings. It hurts. It burns.
Help me I can’t stop it.
Understand me. Empathize with me.
Whatever you say makes it worse.
Are you happy?
My chest feels like it is ready to explode
And my heart has dislodged itself into my stomach.
Lungs are grasping for air.
Mouth lacks moisture.
Pulse reverberating louder and louder.
Eyes burning.
Tears sting my eyes in anticipation for me breaking down.
Are you happy now?
I’m not crazy
I’m not overreacting
I’m not being damned dramatic.
I want you to know that I care
But you are so angry, you can’t feel me.
Your voice beats me like a bat over my head.
Wordy attempts to program me are frustrating.
I can’t hear anymore.
The words - garbled
The meaning - lost
STOP telling me what I mean!
I know what I mean when I say…
I know what I mean when I…
I know what I mean when…
I know what I mean.
How can this end?!
Make it go away.
You won’t because you can’t feel me and you want this.
My Worlds Trade
by Kelli Bray
The automated sound of the alarm clock buzzed in my ears. This time, six A.M. didn’t sound so bad. I can recall the wide grin on my face, there with good reason: it was my 17th birthday. I gathered myself and prepared for school as Archie Bunker told Edith to stifle it, just as he did every morning between six and six thirty when our television tuned us into the classic sitcom, “All In The Family.”
As I walked to school on that crisp September morning I was elated, contemplating the day’s affairs, my jean skirt rolled at the waist to expose more of my bare legs. At the point in my life between a child and a woman, a sneak preview seemed fair enough.
Hormone-geared teenagers flooded the building living not yet for a cause but driven by life nonetheless. Chatter filled the hallway like a million echoes. The clash of metal on metal heard as the locker doors slammed. Sneakers squeaked against waxed floors as feet shuffled into classrooms where teachers demanded attention of our rebellious minds. The bell rang signaling change as I proceeded to biology class.
The minutes of class became monotonous as we continued our overview of the human endocrine system, sketching human bones. We held the bones of the dead in our hands as Ms. Neighbors answered the classroom telephone. Stunned she cut on the overhead television making us all aware of reality outside the four walls. Thick clouds of smoke escape out of the building like steady streams. Over and over the footage of the plane is shown as the newscasters attempt to make sense of what had just happened. Silence fell over the classroom. My six A.M. smile faded and my stomach knotted with guilt as I saw the flames shoot out of the tower. Minutes later screams were heard as the second plane hit. Chaos. Confusion. Grief. Guilt. Why today? This was my day. I had plans! Should I continue with my regularly scheduled program? Is it still alright to smile? Am I still allowed to enjoy this day?
It was inevitable that school let out. With southern Connecticut being only one hour away from New York the crisis had hit too close to home. We were given an early dismissal from school to collect our families assuring their safety and turn our attention to the events still currently taking place. Although aching over the disaster occurring about the crumbling sky scrapers, I selfishly arrived home to call my significant other making plans to get together. Five years in the making, our on again off again relationship had built up to something of a mystery. Unbeknownst to everyone else we had been seeing each other for quite some time however, my mother thought I was going to visit with his sister. And I did, for a moment. His sister and I sat in living room and gazed at the television in disbelief of our great city’s misfortune. Moments later he walked in. After a small meet and greet the sister had disappeared into the house, no doubt knowing that, for lack of a more caring term, it was about to go down.
Inside those four walls I traded my reality for lusty fantasies and cheap thrills. As the news played in the living room our own soundtrack of grunts, kisses and low moans played. I was told to relax, to loosen up. It wouldn’t be bad, wouldn’t hurt, he had done this before. The experienced teacher all too eager to lead the green, naïve student. In all honesty I remember doing more thinking than thrusting. Overwhelmed by a guilty conscience rather than guilty pleasure. Contemplating the condom breaking and the possibility of creating a life as another life ends. Hoping that I wasn’t the only one having sex, partaking in such a dirty activity at such a crucial time in life. I should have been praying for souls lost instead of using the Lord’s name in vain to complement our naughty act. But I was praying. Begging God not to hate me because this had to be a sin. Of course it’s a sin! But its timing was wrong and down-right rude. Begging forgiveness throughout the act as if I were merely a puppet, a naïve student, a teacher’s pet.
Needless to say that school didn’t last long. The build-up of passion in our relationship inevitably caused its demise. We gradually fell apart, our mystery was solved and for the best we ended things. But the guilt stayed with me. I refused to celebrate my birthdays after that, feeling that I had in some way offended those that lost their lives on that terrible day. That I somehow added to the pain. I didn’t deserve to be happy. I don’t believe I cried that day. I don’t recall a tear slamming to the ground like the towers. The guilt caused me to feel empty, hollow. I traded my worlds. Lost my innocence. Gained a burden far heavier to bear.
It wasn’t until five years later on the day of remembrance in 2006 that I brought myself to watch the video on YouTube. Some unfortunate New Yorker captured the footage of the attack. The flames licked the Twin Towers with relentless lust. A thick, gray stream of smoke leading to the heavens. Maybe the route for those souls already gone, lives already lost. White cloths flapping in the wind outside of the windows. Signs of life. Cries for help. Limbs hanging out of windows as the survivors of the explosion try to escape the intense heat. Bodies leaping out of the building and falling to the ground. I imagine them repeating Hail Marys, praying last prayers as they fall hundreds of feet to an untimely and inescapable death. Tears roll down my cheeks and fall in jagged patterns like pieces of the towers as the buildings collapse and come crashing down. As self-punishment I played the footage, watched the crash, heard the screams, and relived the day, as if paying my respects. Coming to grips with the reality that I dodged those years ago. I shut down the computer and came away feeling better, lighter, guilt lifted. My world once again traded.
A year later in 2007 I struggle with the day, as I would imagine others still do. I feel torn between happiness on my day of celebration and sadness in a day of mourning. In a lame attempt to make light of the situation I consider that one day my birthday will be a holiday-- at least I won’t have to work. This birthday I smiled. At first the smile was forced but I came to realize that life continues. The earth hasn’t stopped moving and I am still told by saints that God has a divine plan for my life---so I guess I’m in the clear. A friend from New York, another from New Jersey and me gather together in a tiny I-Hop booth at midnight to celebrate my birthday. We take pictures, eat and talk about home sharing memories as survivors of another day.
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