My final lit project, some has been up here, some hasn't

Russell Meredith
A Collection of Memories and Dreams

Shoes
This is a bad kid. The type that you walk by very quickly and look back a lot. One of those kids who make you think about how much money everything you’re wearing costs. The suitcase that you left at your friend’s house is probably worth more than all the clothes he owns. You don’t feel sorry for him; he’s poor for a reason. Calling him a kid makes you feel better, but he’s almost a man. He’s just a kid. No threat. His eyes glance at you, and you feel a chill, they aren’t one color. Not green, or blue, or grey. They change even as he turns away. You can’t get enough. Staring at him, you absorb every facet of his appearance. Then you notice the shoes, light brown with a stripe of green running across them, they look fresh from the box with their white laces unscuffed. They’re the only thing on him that looks like it cost more than 10$. A girl gets on at Fulton Street; she looks like she’s about 20. Instantly your gaze drops, making sure that her body is really as incredible as your peripheral vision told you. As she crosses the car to him and pulls the headphones off his ears, every male looks at her. He grins at her and then kisses her, almost causing a sigh of regret among the men in the car, but you just stand and watch as she snuggles into him, revealing that his body only takes up half the space inside of his sweatshirt. More kids get on, they all know him. You watch as the group gathers all types of kids, girls and guys, blacks, Asians, Latinos, whites, it doesn’t matter. He greets all of them, and they surround him. You keep looking at him, filled with envy. A seat opens up, and they let him sit down. The girl sits on his lap, shifting around until she’s sure he’s noticed her figure. He puts his head back and closes his eyes, and then you notice something. He’s the focus of their attention; he’s what draws them together. They worship and respect and love and like him, this bad kid. But he’s all alone. None of them really listen to him, that’s why they all follow him. You suddenly remember what he looked like, before they came. Isolated in his own world even in the midst of his friends. Another kid walks on, goes up to him, and lightly slaps him around the girl. His eyes open and he blinks a couple times at the kid standing in front of him. Suddenly a real smile lights up his face. You watch in amazement as he loses all of the threatening nature that you saw before. This friend opens his mouth, “Nice shoes.”


A Simple Dance

If eyes could taste as sweet as yours,
I would never need to eat.
But could feast on sight of you.
A privilege to sit and stare.
Drinking you.
Like a man parched
for beauty, instead
filled with sight.
No equal earth angel, beauteous in my eye
beheld not for love but for hope,
grace, wonder, a smile.
All synonyms in my eyes, a strange singularity.
Love does not create beauty,
we are only dragons, and our beauty creates love.
Jealousy spawns not from possession, from loss,
a hoardless, mindless, beardless beast
to wander alone, no glint or glitter,

Until my head is full and belly empty
for want of thanks to give,
I'll trade away my eyes
to save my memories.

I want the world to know, not
of my happiness, but of my reasons
my Beauty.
The sparkle in one half closed eye and barely recognized
with too much sleep.
Stare into me, and find hope, troubles, a smile,
not all of them are mine, but to give freely,
and envy not.
We cannot lose a great love,
but we can hide it in a cave,
send lonely nights by day to slay it.
And mourn the charred remains we hope to find
crumpled on a carpeted floor,

Until my head is full and belly empty
for want of thanks to give,
I'll trade away my eyes
to save my memories.

So simple,
you cannot argue
logically with faith,
you cannot rationalize with any weight of hear.
Measure well that quality-like of dreams,
because you cannot cheat Egyptian scales,
I am forced to pick a forked road,
I will take neither path, nor fork, but
Sit,

Until my head is full and belly empty
for want of thanks to give,
I'll trade away my eyes
to save my memories.

You mean that much to me,
why,
I tell you sometimes,
in the dark,
and light and,
cold.
You keep me warm,
you give me hope,
darling, looking in my eyes while I stare at you,
that sparkle dancing is you, who already know.
You are the dreams worth having,
that make my eyes crinkle for smiling.
Thank you. You already know but read it one more time at least,
let these naked letters dance across your eyelids when you need my voice.
I love you.


Title: A sonnet
Forced ideas don't really fit
into any form:

The clouds drift slowly across the night sky,
Plumes of grey hope in a darkening world.
While the sun is sleeping, never can I,
for night is the sum of my dreams unfurled.
Of course Apollo's globe is beautiful,
but for me, Prometheus' gift
more beautiful by far, beyond a tool,
when dark I watch her dance, her fingers lift,
against the clouds her burning heart is fierce,
I feel her in my bones when the sky sleeps,
just as sharp as cupids arrows pierce
a sharper burn than when a lover weeps,
a darkened night will never tell you lies,
but stars are just as bright as sparkling eyes.


Tears

for all the pain,
waiting to see when it ends,
for my tears to stop,
as happy becomes sad,
my eyes sparkle with hate,
anger,
frustration,
there is nothing I CAN do.
Nothing to hold on to,
everything to lose,
I lost a path I made,
never seeing my footprints before the dust rose.
It's too late,
my dirty shoes slide through mud,
heavier than Hector's heart
when the world I know falls apart,
and I cannot find the time,
to write a verse or line,
describing my dry eyes,
cannot shape the words that pupils speak in silent misery.
Please let it rain,
so I can see god weep,
to make his tears my own,
and feel again.


A helping hand

How much does a dead hand hurt
scraped against a moving ground
trying to catch a falling friend again,
to stop a flying bullet,
to pull 180 pounds of too little.
Even ghosts can dissapate
when you stop believing they exist.
How does a dead hand hurt
does a dead hand hurt
a dead hand hurt
dead hand hurt
hand hurt
hurt.


Just Fingers

Watching her made everything ok. I didn't know why, I still know what. The way that she would just smooth out problems in the paper before drawing on it. Before detailing the surface with charcoal or pencil. She would crease the surface to cover it with color. Her light skin dark now. No sun could ever change her that much, but lead saturated skin shows like sin, black and folded. I always watched her, her eyes, her fingers, her hands, shaping and creating. More function and form than any artistic creation. The art came from expertise. From making exactly the shape and color and image in her head come to this physical reality. It was the most wonderful thing I had ever seen. I miss her hands. Miss watching them make my eyes widen. I cannot think of them doing something else. typing notes for a boss, all I can see is the page infront of me, covered with notes and marks from her nails and palms and fingertips. The ones I would caress with my lips every chance I get. Wrap my tongue inbetween the rings and knuckles and tendons and scars. kiss each inch and crease. Making sure every burn and scrape is covered by me. I miss holding those wonderful magical hands. feeling their life flowing through me. I could never understand how she could have so much power in such a small part of her, and still have so much vitality in the rest. my fingers miss the feel of hers. I miss her dancing hands.

When they Cry

When the wet damp tears fall,
splashing off skin and bone and flesh,
dripping through cloth and softening color,
making flames' cool distance disappear in steam,
until the heat is under my face,
seeping through every pore of my chin,
every aspect of my lips,
fighting to fill every crevice of my mouth.

Like a flower on a sunny day,
do girls dance in the grass?
or is love a show, put on for ignant mice,
scrounging for every scrap of bread
thrown like second-hand smoke to paupers and kids.

do Children dance to the tune of feet?
or do feet dance to child's tune?
can we decide the difference between uninterested and bored?
or are we simply to lazy to care.

when i feel those drops of damp skin,
does it mean that god can cry?
or is it all the age-old tears of slaves;
rolled to the seas and up to clouds,
and back again, to soothe my lonely, wandering feet.



(untitled)
Birds fly overhead.
blood drips as tears from my face,
I can't say goodbye.



Memories
Blood drips. Regularly. Drip. Drip. Drip.
I can't see, but that's ok, i don't want to see. I don't want to know. I'd rather be blind than watch my friends die while i'm helpless.
Something deep inside me vomits at the thought. Puking disappointment all over my insides.
Painting with internal disgust. I try to move my arm, but it's stuck, and a sharp pain runs down the cuts on my forearm. My throat twists to scream but locks. No sound slips out my bruised vocal chords. i lift my fingers to my eyes and scrape away the dried blood.
Cold and congealed, it's long since left the body it came from, probably mine.
My left eye won't open, it feels swollen to the size of an apple, but my fingers find only a small lump for my eyeball.
My right eye opens, flaking some dried blood off my eyelid.
No depth perception.
No sense of reality.
I know it's a dream.
Right?
There are three dead bodies in front of me. I don't know any of them, the only sign of their death is the gunshot wounds through all six temples.
Holes like jesus's wrists.
Slowly oozing black thick blood.
i press my palms against the wet floor and pry my crushed and twisted body up from it's collapse.
All of the pain ive ever felt comes crashing down on my physical body, and i can stand
Barely.
The pain gives me motive.
gives me anger
gives me strength
it always has.
My hat is still pristine
Hanging from the doorknob that marked one of the exits from the room.
My name is not Leonard Shelby, so i ake time to recollect my memories. To gather the shards that really were my whole tired person.
I put together the outer shell of a Human. Me.
Who i am is defined by what I have done. What have I done.
and why.


1
Dreams are always a testament to life
so full of all the fear and stress and strife,
for conscious minds don't always realize,
the yin and yang of life are truth and lies.
When sleeping always twisted mem'ries rise,
Believable though all logic denies,
for truth's the hardest thing to see in eyes.

2
I look into the dead eyes each day,
living zombies whose slavery is work.
Prince charles is a teacher,
when i call i never reach her,
too busy to fix the world,
too cold to turn up the heat for,
the freezing children I
love,
like a bullet, molten metal kills
this planet, but who's choice is it?
not the children,
the knowledge fix is broken,
i can feel the chill from hell
seeping through my bones.
I cannot wait much longer,
can't help,
too cold.


3
you say "l vie est belle"
but i cannot see the cave i can't
escape.
How do you cry, i learned
not to.
why can I feel their
pain.
But not my own.
Am I wrong to want
nothing at all except
sleep.
Can't dream for thoughts,
can't sleep for dreams,
can't think straight, so my
sleep is twisted.
Beautiful night opens for my
pleasure.
Day runs from me, seeking
solace from my dry eyes,
afraid,
I am, was, and will be,
but i don't know what.


To Dream of Death

soft rain patters on the skull of my hollow shell,
sounding musical pain taking this life down to hell,
i can't see for the steam coming off my hot skin,
inward anger burns my soul til its charred black as sin.

oh darling girl of dreams and dust,
where can I find the will to trust,
my shining armor degraded, rust,
decayed by senseless yearnings, lust.
protect my soul, keep it contained,
no, not a single piece remains,
for it taints the world, the stage, the game,
I just want peace instead of fame.

now when the night falls into place
my heart beats at a faster pace,
relishing the dark, the smell of mace,
and women wearing too much lace,
because my life's a turtle race,
and i am just a snail.

Please destiny, you're not too kind,
Why can't you ease my racing mind,
you're deep dark eyes are heavy lined,
with no sleep left, no time to find,

When molten tears from Pompeii's curse, fall open faced,
Landscapes, children, homes and heads turn into waste,
perverting my senses till ash saturates my taste,
how crime and punishment interlace,
you can't hear screams in rapture's grace.

Beautiful girl who rules my life,
I wish you were my friend and wife,
You're a reflection in my knife,
hinting at a final end to strife,
but though your offer does entice,
my mind listens to your advice,
and never makes the terminal slice,
i can't afford so high a price.


Shoes Relaced
If you ever find one you love, get a ton of them so you can always wear them. The perfect pair. They're too much money, but you don't care. You look all over for them, and keep finding replacements, almost right, but not exactly. It can get so hectic you worry about being able to tell if they're the right ones. They're gorgeous, the right size, shape, color. You can only imagine them on your feet. Cost too much, but it doesn't matter, you would sacrifice everything for them, just to feel them, own them. That is what love is, and you always know when it hits you. Sometimes it sneaks up with time, but that's different, that's when you wear a pair to death and can't imagine not having them. They're comfortable and grimey, but still fly as fuck. The perfect pair is both. Beautiful from the start, but just keep getting better as you wear them. I want a girl like that.


Jenny

She was nine.
One of the most amazing girls I ever knew.
Her presence lit up the room.
Never in the background, always the center of attention, of activity.
She never walked anywhere,
running to get to where people could laugh with her,
and smile.
I lived with her,
helped her learn,
showed her how to make things:
She already knew how to climb trees.
We would walk through the park together,
pointing out people and describing their entire life,
down to every point they didn't know themselves
She was the most descriptive girl I had met.
Talking hours about a simple blade of grass,
the color,
the depth,
the mind,
the soul,
its dreams,
hopes,
sorrows.
Picking apart every piece of everything
until she knew it all.
More than me
more than anyone.
I was there for her because she needed me,
no.
Because she wanted me.
She controlled her life.
Completely.
But she was only 9.
This world was older.
Far older.
There are so many things that she never got to know.
So many books I have to give her.
She wanted to know why dwarf stars are called dwarves.
I didn't know, I never found out,
she would have looked it up.
For her I keep going.
Because she would never let me stop.
No matter what or who I lost.
Especially herself.
I have memories with her,
Ones I will never get over.
The kind that won't change with time.
Cement in my mind.
I have her in my heart.
Every time I dream.
Every time I sleep.
Every time.
I can hold her.
I can't stop time.
I cannot stop death.
There is nothing to bring her back from no where.
No way to see her again in life.
Ok.
I've seen death before,
I know it.
Tasted it,
breathed it,
but I have never felt it this way before.
No one dies the same.
We are what we make in people,
and she made a lot.
The best of any little sister.
Anyone could ask for more.
No one did.
I do not know who won't miss her.
I do not know who can't miss her.
I will, I do.
She never accepted that I could not sleep,
because I always would stay up with her.
Reading late,
keeping her up to find out what happens
in the next chapter.
That is why it is so painful.
There is no next chapter in her life.
Some people write short stories.
Some people write novels.
Neither is better or worse,
sometimes the shortest two words can have the most impact.
Occasionally you need a tome to tell you what no poem can.
It is simple.
My head is not a separate part of me,
I feel with every piece of my body,
every section of anything connected to me.
Everything can hurt.
I hate words that can never describe who she was.
You had to be there.
With her.
And I wasn't.
Couldn't be.
So I never got to say goodbye.
To a small little body.
That used to be my sister.