Scout E.S. in the Shadows

      And so I return, back to the black and white letters and the soft clacking of the keyboard. I return after the rejection of my fragility, knowing now that the escape is temporary. How can I find meaning in this obscure trouble? How can I continue to be angry at the fleeting wind? When all is said in done, I sit in crowded rooms alone and listen to phones ring without an answer. I look around only to count how many people have run from me, mistreated me, and spit on my name. Shallow walls swallow me in whenever I walk, cloudy air consumes my sentences whenever I speak. That pit in my stomach doesn’t leave because it is my soul; broken, abused, self-pitying, and pathetic, but still my soul. It and I long for the day that it will be free to find its purpose. Today, I watched the breeze shuffle through the leaves, and I remembered the days when I would stare up at it and wonder if it was all the same. Every road had trees almost exactly alike, which I learned from...

Where does it go? For years I sit and wonder where it has traveled To what ends has it walked In what oceans has it swam What blood has it watched drip into streets With nothing but a tear In acknowledgement The potential That I was congratulated for Told I was superior Told I was meant For something greater But the definition of greatness Is chosen by them Without fail, it is and always will be Money… Their definition That decides what humanity is That decide who Deserves humanity That decides who is human Their definition That decides what intelligence is That decide who Can be intelligent That decides who is intelligent Their definition That decides what success is That decide where Success must be achieved That decides who is successful Their system That keeps you Sitting… Silent… Scared… But never Successful Their system That pushes you Slowly From your path To theirs Their system That gets yo...

  She gives her breath to make life in the air Trees envy the power only they sought to hold   I watch as she scorches and yells And through her eyes, I can almost see a drought   What she has squeezed from her own toil Is resting unused in my soul   What have I given her back, she questions Yet I know I didn’t ask for this responsibility   She suffers without the pain of approval I birth to follow in the amenities of pain   I gift my new presents what I was once given They follow in our cycle of remorse  

  Candy wrappers slathered onto wooden tables and chip bags’ potent smells wafted through the air and around the stickiness of all the junk food you could ever imagine. No child knew it then, but those chemicals kept them high. Maybe it was on sugar, possibly on one of the countless chemicals under the nutritional information listings with names none of us could read. Either way, it lifted those of us who couldn’t rely on anything else, who kept that smile plastered on our faces from eight to three. A quarter of an hour after that injection, that wrinkling of the wrappers, the crushing of the Smarties, we were free from everything.             We only needed it more the older we got, but eventually, it wasn’t strong enough; we needed something new, something stronger. A few sniffs couldn’t hurt, right? Just like those powdered Smarties, except much more expensive. I almost couldn’t feel myself after it, and all I could rememb...

  The office was the only place that sunlight didn’t reach. On fall afternoons, when I sit in cold corners on stiff chairs, I forget the warmth of the Sun. The familiar face seated across from me was more fixed than the contents of the room, never influenced by the inhabitants of its environment. I enjoyed it; it was comforting for something in my life to stay constant when nothing else ever could. Yet today, I wanted something different. I wanted something better . The feeling of speaking without concern or return had become a burden, not a privilege. Today I wanted to be understood rather than heard. The forms of these walls could no longer contain what my heart and mind released from the restraints of my fragile frame. Complaints, grievances, and anything else worth mentioning were spoken, yelled, and expressed. The face would listen, would care, but not feel. Feelings must be shown; feeling twists the face in every direction, fighting its own urges for self-expression. I call...

           I tried this time. At least I can say that, confidently. And yet I reach no consensus on who I want to become. It seems the fairer I am to myself, the fewer people I have around me. Again, I ask myself, what have I done wrong? What do the ripples in my reflection mean? It must be me; if everyone around me leaves, it can’t always be them. Maybe my breath secretes something poisonous. Maybe my voice explodes eardrums. Or maybe I am just so insufferable that my presence itself is suffocating.             But then I remember all the times I stood by them, in hell and heaven. I remember feeling their suffering, and always being concerned for their well-being. So, I cut my heart out to save them, but I found that they never needed it in the first place. I am the fool for not being sure; what with the fact that they never had one. I clean their wounds and stitch them up, and once they are well eno...

  The second one was placed on my path home. The dirt road was crowded with leaves and weeds, and this time it was a bright yellow bird that was placed perfectly on its side. A piece of paper was tied around its neck. I didn’t want to read it, but I was too afraid of what could happen if I wasn’t aware of it. After all, no one fears the dark, they fear what could be in it. I pulled the string delicately away from its hollow body. The beige cutout fell into the bushes, and I scrambled to grab it. I brought it close to my face, savoring the moment of mystery. It read: One strike left. Leave your Verse . They knew I wouldn’t listen. Even as the bird’s blinding feathers shuffled through the wind and my shoes sunk in the mud, I was grounded. Even as the clouds wept for me, my eyes saw so clearly ahead. I walked through the empty trails that were so little visited as the Hands ran home to bend over and complete mundane work. I wondered; did they ever feel the dirt under them instead ...