At the end of the driveway, we waited.
I was still chasing after my father —
a man who never wanted to carry that label,
who wore his defiance like a well-tailored suit.
He was my town, adorned with a
shimmering crown made from
razorblades and lies.
Their brake lights shone like nebulae
frozen in a night sky — long forgotten,
yet so desperate to remain seen.
She told me not to come,
banned me from his home.
I shrunk from her emerald gaze,
turning a mirror in place of
the other cheek for ten years.
Never a word from them —
No calls —
No cards —
No contact —
as it had been my entire life.
I could not approach my dying father,
but he would wave to me.
Wave to his only daughter,
the only one who defended him —
Out of love —
Out of fear —
Out of shame —
to hide that she was undeserving of love.
With tears dripping off my cheeks, I waved —
each of us behind windshields.
A final wave through distorted panes.
A silent goodbye to years of pain.
A silent hello to years more.
Tag: poems
~*~AuDHD~*~
I learned a while back that people in other English-speaking countries pronounce Adidas much differently than people in America (the States). Here, it is pronounced Uh-dee-duss, while in other countries it is pronounced Oddy-doss. I found that interesting. Most of the time, when I see or hear Adidas, the only thing I think of is All Day I Dream About Sex 😂. Iykyk. Anywho, I am here with another poem 🙂.
~*~AuDHD~*~
Divisible by 5
Is how it should be
The volume for my music
And the TV
It doesn’t stop there
I have to confess
The passage of time
Is part of this mess
At 1, it’s all good
And I feel alive
Then, utter chaos
‘Til it’s 1:05
2 units of insulin?
That won’t work for me
I’ll skip it altogether
Or add another 3
But that’s not all
That goes on in my brain
The mental gymnastics
Could drive one insane
My ADHD
Pops up to say “Hi!”
There are too many rules
And it wants to know why
Dinner needs washing
The laundry needs cooking
A treat for the puppy
When no one is looking
Now nothing is finished
And it’s time for bed
But I must get some work done
I’ll sleep when I’m dead
I’m still not happy with either of my instructors 😒. Poetry lady says I have “a lot of lyricists” on my reading list. Well, duh. I told her in the first week that I do not read much poetry. My last instructor was just fine with that. Lyrics are poetic; poetry can certainly be put to music if one so desires. Many, many folk songs were poems before songs were even born. But I held my tongue.
Then…I emailed my Shakespeare instructor to ask about thesis statements (she wasn’t happy with mine) and she replied that I need to address her by name in emails and to mind my tone 😡😡😤. Mind. My. Tone. I am autistic, I literally cannot “mind my tone.” What you see is what you get. I would understand if I was rude or pissy but I write how I speak and that is how it has always been. I honestly do not know how to be otherwise.
Forgiveable, perhaps, if I had not disclosed being AuDHD in my first post as I do with every class. I do not have an intentional tone and since Mom’s gone, I don’t have a filter because I would speak through her, and now I do not have that option, which would not be an option in school, really, unless I asked her to read stuff before I submitted it and she suggested changes. So, I sat there and cried for an hour or so and kept myself from replying, which was a very hard thing to do.
She also gave me a low grade on my discussion post because my answer was “vague.” I need specifics if you do not want me to be “vague” (according to you). My husband knows this, so if I am vague when I ask him something or answer a question, he lets me know or asks me questions so I can elaborate and/or explain myself. At the very least, she could have responded to my post so I had an opportunity to appease her. I am a straight-A student and a junior; I know that all my other instructors were not just handing out A’s willy-nilly and letting me coast. I am literal. I can seem obtuse or sarcastic when I am not being either of those things. I spoke to my advisor about it so at least he is aware. Work with me and I will work with you.
~*~Pervasive Thoughts~*~
Five poems this week! I had to write five poems for class this week alone 😫😫. I know, I know, it’s a poetry workshop class, but last workshop was two a week and certain forms each week. I don’t know how poets who write poems every day do it, honestly. I don’t know if it is because there is too much going on in my head or what, but I do much better with prompts or photos or contests. I find writing very cathartic, so I usually write about painful things so I can get them out, which is exhausting.
For class, I wrote about my father refusing to see me before he died and about my grandfather having dementia and referring to me as Little One because he couldn’t remember my name. Considering he died from sepsis, I’m assuming his dementia was caused by an untreated UTI. He had not been to the doctor in over 40 years, so it took them a while to figure out why he collapsed (he never woke up). Those two poems were very draining.
On top of the four poems for the milestone, we had to write another one for the discussion post, which is a forum mainly for attendance, participation, and accreditation. We had to choose a poem from our reading list and write a poem in their “voice,” which I found weird because I don’t even know what my voice is. I did it, nonetheless, and came up with the following:
~*~Pervasive Thoughts~*~
But don’t you see?
Once it’s in your head,
it becomes a part of you —
it wraps around your brainstem
and creeps into your DNA.
Walking the tightrope becomes
less daunting when it’s over
a perverse safety net of pills,
razor blades, and ropes.
The passivity of it all creates
a sense of mundanity that leads
you to believe everyone possesses
these thoughts and feelings —
until you realize you’re the outlier and
most would exist in the extremist
of conditions and call it surviving.
I don’t know how that will go over in such a censored society (from how it used to be — not that we are as censored as other countries), but the professor was cool with including Wanting to Die by Anne Sexton in my reading list, so I am guessing the subject matter will not be a problem.
I doubt my PW2 professor will get back on my good side since I really liked my PW1 professor and PW2 laughed and said that PW1 was very wrong. I am not cool with people talking 💩 about people I like and/or respect. So, possibly a long eight weeks.
Cari R Esta 