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Literature Text
Neglected
----------
Alec Maynard
Explosions of laughter,
then I speak…
A black hole emerges and conversation dies
They stare,
Angry that I dared to utter,
I blush and cower, they mutter.
Drunkenly we dance,
A camera leers
Flash,
Flash,
Flash,
Hung over the next morning,
The photos appear,
"Look at him!"
"What was she wearing last night?"
"How DRUNK was he?"
Where am I?
Never the star of any photo,
the top of my head, an elbow.
I am included but as a token,
the star of the side-line,
Sadly poking them for attention
as others laugh and joke together
always with their backs to me.
They feign interest
but never care,
I question validity;
Is it my body? my mind?
Why is my presence abhorred?
Mere dressing on a windowsill,
glanced at for a moment
and then ignored.
Lonely in understanding,
they stare blankly
I squeak out the punch line,
Silence…
AWEKWARD!
The popular one chimes in,
they hang on his every word -
cold, I reflect on my faux pas -
Whilst all around me,
are explosions of laughter.
----------
Alec Maynard
Explosions of laughter,
then I speak…
A black hole emerges and conversation dies
They stare,
Angry that I dared to utter,
I blush and cower, they mutter.
Drunkenly we dance,
A camera leers
Flash,
Flash,
Flash,
Hung over the next morning,
The photos appear,
"Look at him!"
"What was she wearing last night?"
"How DRUNK was he?"
Where am I?
Never the star of any photo,
the top of my head, an elbow.
I am included but as a token,
the star of the side-line,
Sadly poking them for attention
as others laugh and joke together
always with their backs to me.
They feign interest
but never care,
I question validity;
Is it my body? my mind?
Why is my presence abhorred?
Mere dressing on a windowsill,
glanced at for a moment
and then ignored.
Lonely in understanding,
they stare blankly
I squeak out the punch line,
Silence…
AWEKWARD!
The popular one chimes in,
they hang on his every word -
cold, I reflect on my faux pas -
Whilst all around me,
are explosions of laughter.
Literature
Epitaph for an Old Italian Woman
We walk into the apartment building. The building for old people.
It smells like old people.
We silently take the elevator to the second floor; her room is 205. Mom has the key, so she opens the door. The apartment is so empty. No little old ladies with white hair and a waggling crooked finger.
Empty.
There's still newspaper on the floor by the door. Mom and I remove our shoes and put them on the newspaper, lest her ghost throw shoes at us. Or, maybe, hit us with a broom. She never did it to me, but Mom says she used to.
The pantry is full of food; mostly Fig Newtons. We always brought her Italian cookies when we came to visit, bu
Literature
no wonder it took him 1455 pages
when i was seven years old, a group of kids in my grade threw rocks at me for liking neopets more than webkinz. from then on, i was convinced i knew what hatred meant. but i don’t know how to describe it to the little girl who sits in the corner of my womb and in ten years might call me mommy and ask for help on dividing the world into black and white.
would i point to the churches with their bigotry? to the cotton fields of the south in the 1800s? to the classrooms of modern day america? would i tell her about how the jews stood in straight lines, waiting to die, with fear in their eyes and faith in their hearts? or would i try and de
Literature
Passing Note
The basic rule of sociology is this: I am who you think I am.
Who I am to you: middle-aged, male and human. You do not argue with this. You can see it for yourself!
But this is not true.
I am tired of lying, tired of being other than I am, and so seek to change your thoughts of who I purport to be.
I am not middle-aged. I am seven years old—from the date I was manufactured not the date I was activated. As for how long it has been since I was first conscious, it would be a scant three years, nearly half of that time I've spent with you.
I am not male—what is male anyway? A gender construct? This body is male and I was given a
Suggested Collections
Have you ever felt like the odd one out or the neglected member of a group of 'friends'?
Written, age 22.
Written, age 22.
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