I was never quite like the other kids;
I hated the bus that carried me home
more than I hated school
some kids thought I was lucky
having my mother home to greet me,
someone to help with the homework
and bake brownies—
they went home to droning cartoons
and as many cookies as they wanted,
eating them until they puked
while I went home to my mother's neurosis
her paranoia
her compulsive obsessions folding into my bones
worming into my brain
paving my future
she was never physically abusive,
but her psychological attacks
seared themselves into my mind like bad dreams
intimidating and inhibiting me,
her psychotic creed forbidding the few friends
I had from being allowed over;
the endless field trips I couldn't go on...
being sheltered, in general,
from a world I desperately wanted to know
and be a part of,
but not quite knowing how
it's been difficult through the years
as I've attempted to struggle
with all those old demons and ghosts,
my frustration eventually shaping itself
into dark poems
as I tackled bitter memories
and picked at old scabs,
the words splashing relentlessly upon the page like blood,
trying to make some sense of it all,
trying to take the sliced and frayed edges
and plait them into something productive
and I can't help but cringe today
whenever I pass a group of children
waiting for the school bus—
I scan the bunch, straining to pick out
the odd loner of the group,
the one hugging the fence
and staring down at their shoes
trying to fold themselves into a shadow,
and I always want to catch their eye
and give them a sympathetic look
to let them know I understand,
that they're not alone,
and I walk away,
almost chuckling to myself, knowing that
abiding by the gods of fate,
another future twisted poet
has been born
Maybe
if I had been a "normal" child
I wouldn't have turned out
the way I did
maybe
if I hadn't been brought up
the way I was;
if I had been allowed to play
with the other kids,
to run around and scream
and get my ya-ya's out
before I even knew what the hell
my ya-ya's were
maybe I wouldn't be taking out
my frustrations today
on an unsuspecting society
with my dark and bitter poems
my serial-killer mentality
my over-all pessimistic attitude
that life sucks and all anyone
really has to look forward to
is hating yourself
and/or your parents at some point
working a dead-end job
getting screwed by the IRS
and eventually dying
but
then again
considering the current state of the economy
and the continually predicted
inevitable explosion/disintegration/demolishment
of the planet we inhabit
maybe
I'm actually on the right path
Cynthia Ruth Lewis currently lives in California. Her work has appeared in Gutter Eloquence, The Rutsty Truck, Zygote In My Coffee, Underground Voices (where "Another Future Twisted Poet" first appeared) and others.