Copyright ¨^2002 Angela Neary

Lost Between the 9 to 5

Do you even know what it feels like to be human?
Have you ever felt a tear run down your cheek,
so hot and wet?
Have you ever fallen in love
for the first time
all over again?
Or are you too busy to be human?
No love to spare between 9 and 5.
Buried in papers at home.
Can you even recognize your own face anymore?
Your family has gone but you don't even notice.
It doesn't matter to you anyway,
you haven't seen them since 1998.
Slowly humanity ebbs away
removing itself from you, smile by smile.
Eventually nothing but the shell remains
and you don't even notice the difference.

Recipe for success

Fed up with the mundane day to day life?
Wish that it could all just end for you?
Take one small bottle,
preferably filled with something rather toxic,
add to a glass of orange juice.
Mix with all the stress and bustle of the 9 to 5 life.
Be sure to strain;
sometimes sunny days at the park
or picnics with friends can cloud your vision
(and we wouldn¨at want that)
Swallow the thunderstorms and clouds you have created for yourself
and try not to think of all you will miss.

Poem

Lost in the hustle and bustle
Of the busy bureaucratic world
they sit.
Curled against one another for warmth
and comfort.
They are the ones the system has let down.
Dignity has been left somewhere between hopelessness and despair.
Not by choice but by necessity.
They reach their hands out towards you
begging for change, food, anything you can spare.
Oh, and you can spare
In your carefree, tax-return lives,
You can spare
but
you
don't.
You ignore the sad eyes
and see only the shabby clothes
and hear only the mumbled words
from lips frozen from the cold
and you pass them
without a second glance.
Oblivious to the cries of their children
you walk home to you high-style condominium
and don't think about 'them' until you see them again tomorrow

Poem

The pretty words come easily to you, don't they?
They flow from your lips
like sap from a tree.
They're meant to make me feel special.
But I know you won't mean what you say in a week
Or even tomorrow.
So I shut out your pretty words;
and close myself off to the possibility of love.

Poem

The snowflakes fall against the frozen ground.
Coating the stained red grass
and muffling the cries of the dying.
Unaware, they drift silently through the smoky sky
and blanket both sides.
They are the only free thing left in this land.
In a world where everything belongs to somebody
and those few things that aren't owned are fought over.
The snowflakes are unprejudiced, unbiased and unaware.

Written For Chris

There is a piece of me
Somewhere in the depths of my soul
That is still in love with you.
And if I could find it,
I would tear it out
piece by piece.
Because loving you hurts a lot more
than that ever would.

The Girl Nobody Really Liked Anyway

She walks down the halls
in her 1995-era fashions
and greasy hair.
It's the girl nobody really likes anyway.
Does she have any friends?
Does anybody really care?
She should be so embarrassed
coming to school looking like that!
It wouldn't matter though.
She's the girl nobody really likes anyway.
They make fun of her as she passes.
Poking her and taunting her.
She holds her head high
Pretending not to hear them but she knows
She's the girl nobody really likes anyway.
She goes home to an empty house.
There's no food, her mother forgot again.
A door slams and there are angry words as her parents arrive.
She runs to her room to cry, there's no shelter here
Not for the girl nobody really likes anyway.
'If I did it,' she wonders, 'would anybody really care?'
They are so tiny in her hand
Could they really end her life?
A last-ditch effort to make them care.
But it's too late
For the girl nobody really liked anyway.
A tacky funeral
They gossiped later at school.
Plastic flowers, ugh.
What was her name again?
It was just some girl nobody really liked anyway.

Poem {written for April Venoit}

I am the one you tried to hide from.
The one who showed you too much how you really look.
Dared you to understand that there is more to life than being a size 8
or having long blonde hair.
And for that you condemned me to a life of shame.
Because I can see beauty where you never thought to look:
In the laughter in the halls,
In watching someone learn
In the ugliest person's soul.
And because of that you are afraid of me.

So Long As

So long as sequoias stand tall in California,
And the Eiffel tower stands in Paris.
So long as the Empire State Building stands in New York
And so long as there are still the Rocky Mountains
I am not so big.

So long as there are doctors
And lawyers still go to court.
So long as students still go to Harvard
And Bill Gates still lives
I am not so smart.

So long as there are scary movies
And things that go bump in the night.
So long as there are still thieves and murderers
And my mum when she's angry
I am not so brave.

But give me what makes me whole,
My family, my friends and my writing.
Put me close to people and close to nature
And give me something to laugh about
And I am beautiful.

Poem

She looks in the mirror and she no longer recognizes who is staring back at her.
A web of lies now lines her once beautiful face.
There are small white lies here
(they begin around the eyes)
And the horrible lies you'll tell your best friend
(oh, they'll getcha!)
They show as gray streaks in her once shiny brown hair.
Cheeks sagging from covering her tracks
Laugh lines are gone
(no relief)
They've been replaced by worry lines across her forehead
Cosmetic surgery won't help.
It'll take away the lines but the scars will stay forever.

For Chris

Today's the day I refuse to let you hurt me anymore.
I have taken all the power from you.
You no longer rule my heart
As you have these past five years.
You are a vexation to my spirit,
poison for my soul
and a threat to all that I am.
You refuse to understand me
to look deeper than the rest
and that makes you no better than they.
I still love you.
I probably always will but
Today is the day I refuse to let you hurt me anymore.

Like the poems and would be interested in reading some stories I have written? Just continue on down. Thry aren't titled though.

The Grave

She walked over to her friend, standing over the grave of The Great Love That Never Was. She placed a hand on her shoulder, trying in some desperate way to protect her from the wind that chilled her to the bone, it whipped her skirts across the snow and she knew there was nothing she could do.
"Does it hurt still?" She asked softly to the back of her head. The auburn hair answered quietly in reply.
"I've buried him," she said softly. "I don't know if he is alive or dead and yet, I've created this grave for him, this momument to his memory..."
"Why?" She spoke.
The hair continued, as though she was too lost in thought to have heard the word spoken by her friend. "I don't know whether he is alive or dead and yet it is less painful for me to assume he is dead. I've not seen him and the voice that I once cherished has not said hello to me for far too long. I know that were he alive he would have said hello, be it if it were only on the breeze and carried to my ears by the Goddess herself. But I have heard nothing."
Beneath their feet, the snow swirrled and bit at their ankles and suddenly she realized how cold she had becoming, standing at the grave of The Great Love That Never Was. She looked around for the first time since she had arrived there. She turned and faced her friend.
"But you see, the reason I feel so terrible," she spoke clearly, "is that I've killed him. For it is far easier for me to believe that he is dead then that he just doesn't care anymore."
And with that, she turned her back on the grave and walked away.

The Bubbles

She leaned back against the cermaic back of the bathtub and lost herself in the smooth tones of the jazz clouded by the water in her ears.
It was like she was lost in her own little world, for that half hour. Her own little world of raspberry scented bubbles piled like whipped creme on top of claw-footed bathtub, surrounded by pilar candles that wafted vanilla throughout the bathroom. The last memories of a sunny day drifted in through the windowpanes, illuminating the dust that danced along with the music on her CD player. They chose to settle on the leaves of the ivy that spilled over the sill of the window.
Here, nothing could disturb her. Nothing existed outside this sensual realm that she had created for herself. She controled the sounds, the smells, in her own domain, she was a Goddess.
She ran her hand down a once again smooth, creamy calf and picked up a handful of bubbles. Slowly, they popped one by one until she was left holding nothing.
She reached beneath the water, grabbed the plug and let her own world slide down the drain. The CD finished it's crooning and the candles were nearly burned to the bottom. The dust on the ivy only reminded her of the many chores that she still had to do.
But the bottle of raspberry bubble bath sat on the bathside table, just waiting for a chance to create a universe again.

A Recluse Is Not Always A Good Thing To Be

The key slipped soundlessly into the lock and she pushed the door open. Another wonderful night nestled high in the mountains with nothing to worry about but when the heroine in the romance novel she was reading was going to hook up with he hero. And what a hero he was!
She tossed her keys in the wicker basket that sat on the counter next to the door and slipped off her boots. The snow was melting across the welcome mat, but that really didn't matter. It hadnt welcomed anyone in a long time and she thought that it was better that way.
It was quiet here. There was no one to try to get her to rush her meals or tell her when to turn down her music. As she was padding through the living room, she picked up her bo-ken, gave a few practice strikes through the air and set it back down. She thought to the man who had taught her how to use her sword and wondered vaugly what he was doing now. She had always had a mad crush on him but was far too shy to ever do anything about it. After graduation they had each gone their seperate ways. Now all she had to remember him was a "We'll definatly keep in touch! Good luck with the writing!" in her year book and her knowledge of how to swing a sword to hurt someone.
She flopped down on the couch and picked up her book. On the front cover, a woman in a long medieval style dress was casting desiring looks towards a man with wavy hair and rippling muscles.
They don't come like that in life she sighed. She travelled to the moors of medieval England and lost herself there for a while until something brought her back to the present.
There were noises coming from the kitchen. And her cat had run away a few weeks ago...so it most definatly couldn't be that!
The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as they got closer. She grabbed the wooden sword and dashed out of the room as silently as her training had taught her. All her winter clothes were hanging on the rack in the kitchen and the only way to the kitchen was through the living room. The snow was falling once again outside her window and she almost feel the freezing breeze through the wood. There was no way she could make it down the mountain without freezing to death.
The house was small, no locks, why had she needed locks on interior doors? She lived alone! She cursed herself for her stupidity now and crouched behind an armchair in her room. True, there were probably better hiding spots, but she wanted enough room that if he found her, she could swing her bo-ken and hopefully knock him out.
The footsteps plodded through the living room and for a brief moment, she was pissed. He hadn't taken his boots off and now her beige carpet would be ruined.
She gripped the handle tighter and tried to remember all that she had been taught.
The footsteps paused and she remembered that she had vaccumed this morning. The carpet was plush. When she was a child she had loved plush carpet. She could walk around and draw figures in it. Now it was like a map to the invader, leading him directly to where she hid...
She swallowed heavily. The door opened.
She stood, knowing that he would find her anyways, best to be in offence rather than defence.
"Get the hell out of my home," her voice wavered though she was trying her best to stay strong.
He took a step closer. He was so big...
She raised her sword. "I mean it, leave!"
He spoke, he sounded like bear and train mixed in with the very voice of Satan. "Should I be afraid of a stick, little girl?"
She brought the stick down across his head once and as she was going for his genitals, he grabbed it and snapped the end off it. Her dark eyes grew wide and he grinned evily as he pulled her closer to him with what had seconds ago been her only defence against him.
She could smell the bloodlust on his breath and knew that his would be the last voice she ever heard. She thought briefly of the man who taught her to swordfight.
I am so sorry; I wasn't a worthy student
His lips moved against her ear, "Doncha know? A recluse isn't always a good thing to be."

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