Peas in a pod

We were close friends with the world to gain. Parties, weekends, and friends were just a few of the pleasantries we shared. As teenagers, we lived like peas in a pod, but more like a mismatched pairing fused into a whole, eclectic being. We never passed judgment on each other when we met to share the stories of our young lives and the excitement that built around school, relationships, and the debauchery we could indulge in, as innocent as we were. I listened carefully when she told me about her relationship with older men. She was concerned when I told her about the fights and trouble I would get into but no matter the worries or hardships, we always ended the night laughing, hugging, and parting ways happy to have seen each other.

As we grew older and moved on with our lives, I stopped seeing her as much as I wanted to. I heard rumors about her well-being, as I am sure she heard about mine. She lived in the corner of my mind, holding a small but firm space within my life and memories of brighter and more care free times. We eventually lost touch for a few years and I began to stop wondering about her and our times together as friends. Sometimes, I thought I saw her from the corner of my eye but when I looked closer, it would always be a stranger.

A few days ago, I was riding the bus home from work when a car pulled up next to my window seat at a stop light. It was a small, rickety vehicle with little holding it together. A young girl sat in the front seat. Her silhouette appeared identical to my old friend, and for a brief moment I thought it was her so I knocked on the bus window to catch her attention. When I noticed a small stream blood on her forearm, I stopped knocking. I couldn’t see her face but I thought she was hurt so I kept looking to see what I could. We were separated by the glass, my world to hers. As the large arm of a man reached over to shift the car into gear, the girl brandished a needle, poking it into her arm. I gasped in shock at the sight of her seated stoned cold the passenger seat. Before the car took off, she came into view. She was beautiful and pale as she looked up from her lap. Her eyes were cold to the sunlight and she looked straight down the road into oblivion. It wasn’t the girl I had known.

Rhyme cycle III

Stifled in sickness witnessing the quickness to jolt the stalled journey of cerebral stiffness
an exercise in mental gain with brains growing, speeding, and sounding off within my vein verbatim
Verbal vernacular built to weather vindictive voices
The choices must be made, released upon raiding the storage of my rage
foraging for little space to ink things I think onto the pores of this perennial page

The trees from the forest
the value from the harvest
hard as is the target
soft as are the markers

Never will they lay hand upon these backs built of bone
Hardly will they try to defy those they deem strong and significant on their own

Mindful man must master the mercilessness of merchants and mercenaries
Adversaries advertise their lies in kind among small minds like at nurseries
I am at an advantage from a point of vantage of a bronzed lens that’s tertiary
With enough lines to find within my rhymes the time to wish the world and its woes a happy anniversary