White Washed Walls: Something that came to me while I was sitting by my window... it was a bitter kind of day.
Empty Wind-blown Streets: Pieced together from different hospital stays. I hate hospital rooms. I guess that's not much of an explanation... you'll see, though. [707 words]
ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
I'm a teenager; I like to write, play music, and read old English manuscripts. [November 2002]
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (14) Everything's Routine (Essays) The frightening realization that people live their entire lives like gerbils running in their wheels, and sometimes come away empty-handed. [662 words] Makes No Difference (Poetry) Not the Sum 41 song. [120 words] Not Who I'm Supposed To Be (Poetry) I said it was poetry but it isn't really. I don't know what to call it, but it's the feeling you get when everyone knows you should be more than you are and they're right. [373 words] Nothing Much (Poetry) - [328 words] Snowing In April (Songs) - [346 words] Sounds Of Silence And What I Can't Say (Poetry) - [358 words] Special (Short Stories) - [1,338 words] The Cool Clique (Short Stories) I actually did some reasearch for this, interviewed a few older friends... they don't understand it anymore than I do. [837 words] The Masochist Boy (Novels) A neglected teenager confronts his addiction and depression with the help of an insecure friend. [35,178 words] [Teenage] The Waves (Songs) - [160 words] Watch Out, Henry! There's A Hole In That There Bucket! (Short Stories) The English Essay I Had Way Too Much Fun Writing. [4,772 words] [Teenage] We Are Connected By A Net Of Faith (Songs) I guess the title doesn't say much, but this is my feeling about the coming war with Iraq. [296 words] Why I Got High, Ran Away, And Just Generally Screwed Myself Up (Poetry) A thought that popped into my head today. I think it might actually explain something. I don't know, I just want it to be out there. [34 words] 'ms. America' (Songs) If Ms. America was a typical American woman... [287 words]
White Washed Walls, A Collection Pearl S
White Washed Walls
She sat up slowly in her bed
She wiped the tears out of her eyes
She sank back and began to cry
The light shone through her window
So bright she couldn’t see it
She sank back and began to cry
The whitewashed walls, the cold tile floor
She hadn’t walked since she was ten
The bright pale drapes, the shriveled
Plant in a jar that had died months and months ago.
It wasn’t home.
The get-well cards by her bedside
Colored like rainbows.
The puffed balloons, the candy bears
Plushy like velvet
She sank back and began to cry.
Painted room
Thin blankets
It wasn’t hers, not at all.
Painted room, a cold
Dead plant
Her world goes no further than this-
The world outside
Brilliant and bright
It isn’t real, it isn’t true to her.
The world outside
A distant place
It hides its face
She couldn’t make it to the window if she tried.
And she’s tried.
Nurses
Bright smiley faces
Teddy bears and cards
Family comes…
And goes.
And goes.
And goes.
Doctors
Needles
Pricks and knives
Transplant
Fusion
All her life…
Again.
Again.
Again.
They’re talking
Big scale dollars
Scream and holler
H.M.O and crime white-collar-
No one cares.
No, no one cares.
A candy world
Reading partners on Thursday
They all volunteered…
College credits, credits that’s all it is.
People come and talk to her and smile at her with big bright faces
Faces that in different places
Wouldn’t have cared at all.
And newspaper reporters
Striding through the halls
Sympathy for them all those little children
In the rooms with white-washed walls
That smell like lemons from the
Cleaning lady who came by last week.
They say that she’s going to get better
Tell her that she will be better
She can’t set both her feet on the floor.
They ooh and ah with wide eyes watching
Tell her they’re proud she’s worth watching
She can’t even walk anymore.
They sit they talk they chat awhile
They hold her hand and play awhile
And then disappear
Out into the big great world beyond the white washed walls it’s all so
Fake it’s all a dream
A dream that she’s been dreaming
And she hasn’t walked since she was ten.
A candy world
White washed walls
Lemon spray
A teddy bear
A get well card
A blood trans-
Fusion needles sticks and stones
Won’t break my bones but
Needles break my heart
They break her heart and no one else even
Starts to notice her, she’s all alone
It’s her and the white washed walls.
She sat up slowly in her bed
She wiped the tears from her eyes
She pressed one hand to her head
She had a fever again
She looked all around her at the room
With white washed walls
And bleached white drapes
And cold tile floors
And lemon spray
Her eyes ran past the get well cards, the teddy-bears
That came from Mars and then she saw the TV screen
Elementary kids and teens
Playing jumprope in the street
Across the street
Jump to a beat
And if she tried
She knows she couldn’t make it to window to look outside.
She sank back in the bed alone and cried.
Empty Wind-blown Streets
Sometimes, I stand here
Right here by the window.
I stand and I watch as the people go by.
I watch as they hurry, they rush, they fly
Blind mice all scurry scurry quick
Wrapped up in the next quick fix
The next non-solution to the question no one understands.
Sometimes, I stand here
Lean my hands on the window sill.
I stand and I watch the wind gust through the leaves.
Auburn and gold, scarlet and blue-
Brilliant but faded, as worn as they’re new.
Now the street’s empty, black asphalt desert
Empty except for the gust of wind calling,
Calling,
Calling something never born.
The colors are faded
The people are blind
And I
I no longer care.
The street’s deserted. The people have gone. I am still here. I am the last witness. I am the last witness. Have I always been?
I have done other things between now and yesterday.
I’ve gone to work, I’ve gone to dinner, but I never really left and
Once gone
I don’t think I’ve returned.
My body is abandoned as the asphalt street
My soul is as groundless as the calling of the wind
And the leaves that shift and blow in the breeze.
I’ve gone home, I’ve gone to work, I’ve gone to play
I’ve gone away
And gone I will stay
The vessel of clay
The empty street
Waiting for the color, waiting for the light
To the desolate moan of a wind
Calling,
Calling,
Without hope.
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