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Real life

Out of Order

Posted on 2013.04.21 at 21:18
I came from a broken home,
and it was filled with broken things,
glasses shattered when thrown
when my father slammed them against the wall.

Even though we still had dinner together,
drinking from plastic cups
because glass breaks
and plastic didn't
things weren't like a regular family.
Or perhaps they were,
Maybe what we define as regular is actually irregular.


By the time I was four my family fell apart.
My parents going opposite ways,
my mother subdued by silence
when the yelling finally stopped
and he didn't come back
so we left.

At the age of seven I didn't have a father,
or rather didn't know him,
hadn't seen him since I was left waiting on a bus
one Christmas and being picked up by a stranger
some man who my mother had known
who then took me back.

I didn't have a father,
but I had a grandfather,
and he was grander than my father ever was.
Around him glasses didn't break,
though occasionally cameras did
when hit with a snow ball.
Shouting was replaced with laughter
and yelling with disapproving silence.
There was still a time I felt the sting a belt
but it didn't hurt nearly as much as the words
'I'm dissapointed'.
He taught me so much, came to every game,
every concert, every career day and school picnic.

Then at twelve, I got a step-father,
I didn't meet him until my mom already said yes.
He was a step up from my father,
which is why I thought he was a step-father,
but he was no where near as grand as my grandfather.
And I never called him dad,
rather just Mike.

Rather than breaking glasses, he broke promises.
He would say one thing and mean something completely different,
not know how to tell the difference between yes and no.
Not able to spell opposite,
or how to really read a ledger.
He couldn't balance a check book
or recite a Dr. Sues rhyme
instructions without pictures
might as well have been in chinese;
though the clearly were in english,
and french,
and spanish,
which he could proudly tell.
Though he had no clue what they said.

In fact there was one time
he broken the wall,
cutting down a tree despite repeated warnings
on the way it was leaning.
He broke then broke the house
by continuing to cut the tree.

He would spend five dollars when we only had four
then causing the bank to take forty-five
because he just wanted a drink.
By the time I went to college half of my savings
were spent fixing what he broke,
to keep a run down home from become something
that the bank owned
and keeping us off the streets.

In school I was called names,
geek, loser, fatty.
Kids made fun of the way that I talk,
the slight lisp I had
and how quiet I was.
Though since I stood a head taller,
played football, wrestled, and took karate,
it was usually only in passing.
Three days a week I was pulled from class
for speech therapy,
trying to fix my speech at the request of my teachers.
I still held the top scores
and aced every test
up until my sophomore year.

I still aced tests,
but I had a habbit of not doing homework,
my notebooks were filled with doodles,
and well I did things a different way.
While tedious it was quicker
and most of all, it worked.
It seemed my teachers couldn't stand that
and so it stood quizes were monkey see monkey do.
Second line of the third paragraph of the first problem
from that assignment last week.
My grades and my ranks dropped
but that was fine with me.
I had other concerns,
since I fell in love.
Or rather that stage of love that we think is love
when we're infatuated
and call it love.

Her home wasn't broken,
both her mom and dad still cared for her
and for one another,
and her sister and brother, and cousin
and pets,
and apparently me.
I still received letters from them even after three years.
Even after we broke up
and she was knocked up
by a highschool drop out with better hair,
tattoos and . . . fangs.

It was my one serious relationship,
and it lasted from one sophomore year
to the next one when we were at college.
But scholarships only pay for so much,
and it's hard to find time when working
two jobs and maintaining your grades.
And so she waiting until two a.m. to call me,
just to be sure I wasn't occupied.
Between the drags of her cigarette
she said she still wanted a friend,
and I said I wanted to sleep.
I had an important speech for class the next day.
The same class which she was in,
and sat right behind me each day.
Jokes on her, I aced it.

I graduated, she got married and had a kid.
I spent half a year seeking employment
and she had another kid
and he go promoted to manager of the drive thru.
And in that same time my grand-father died.
Cancer had taken it's toll and cause his thoughts
to become
until he didn't know yesterday from tomorrow
or a helping hand from the one hurting him.
My heart sank,
there was a pain in my chest,
and it felt as if I was carrying the whole world.
Yes it was difficult and I cried,
I asked why,
I sat there silently,
and I wondered about everything.

My heart hurt,
my family was devastated
and out of order.
But we managed.

Because you see through I come from a broken home,
though I came from a house divided,
was called names,
had no money or means,
though I was teased, bullied, tested and tried,
though my heart has been shattered
on a million different occasions.


So don't tell me that I am,
don't tell me I can't adjust because my father left.
Don't say that I'm damaged just because
I never got to spend the summer playing instead of working.
I may have times when I have faltered,
when I don't perform at my best,
or when I may need my space,
but I'm not broken.
I'm still whole,
a whole of who I am.
I may not be perfect or ideal
but I can still see, hear, speak
I can still feel.

The may be signs of wear and tear,
but that just goes to show
that I'm well worn.
Like that pair of shoes you finally broke in,
the ones that you wear when you have a long way to go.
Those jeans you slip on
when no one else is around and you just want to relax.
I may still have a lisp,
and people might still make jabs
at the way that I look.
I might be alone, and still cry at a sad movie,
But you know what, I live on.
I may not be king of the world,
but I'm far from being six feet under.
I might at times feel like the jester,
the butt of everyone's jokes,
but at least I can make them laugh
instead of making them cry.

And while it hurts when I talk to a friend
after weeks of nothing to say
only for them to cut things short
or ask who I am again,
I still continue to move forward.
My spirit is not crushed,
my heart is worn by not shattered,
I still have the strength to pull myself out of bed
Though I may stumble I never fall,
and if I fall then I make it as spectacular as possible
in case anyone's watching.
My knees are scraped, and I have scars to show
just how much those sticks and stones hurt,
and just how deep words can wound you,
but I'm not broken.

So if you look at me and you think I am.
Then perhaps what's broken
is how your own perception of the world.
Maybe, just maybe, what's broken is the lens
of the microscope through which you view the world.
Because you see
a person isn't broken because they're different.
They're only broken because they can't see
that the damage left by the world,
by idle gossip and vindictive slurs,
can be repaired.
So even at our worse,
the deepest points of our lives
are those when we're not broken
but simply
out of order.


Torrens V. Casus
torrens_v_casus at 2013-04-22 01:21 (UTC) (Link)
So this is probably the only piece from this month's challenge that I'm going to be sharing. And I'm not going to lie the only reason why I attempted writing open again was because of all the spoken word that I've been listening to lately.

Inspired especially by Shane Koyczan among others.
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