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Little Red Book
There is a slight hum in the room. Feels like a fly, buzzing around my head.
People are having conversations. Loud ones, quiet ones, then suddenly “shhhhhh” everyone quiets down. You could hear a pin drop.
Then there's me. Im red, leathery, ironed, and burnt with the dragons battling on all sides.
A sword pierces my side, yet there is no blood. It doesn’t hurt.
If you look at me you’d think nothing of it.
“Oh look,” you say. “Another useless scrap.”
The truth is im anything but.
Im everything and nothing.
Im a universe and a dream.
Im hope and im lost.
But most of all, Im the book that is bound to my creator.
My pen marks are run deeper than any sword.
The black burns of the ink are more visible than any fire from any dragon.
The emotion I feel is more than the red on my face.
I am bound by my shackles and my creator’s salvation.
I am his hope and his loss.
His life and his death.
His dreams and his faults.
I am the dragon, in red, with words of all.
Held by few, seen by ones who fall.
“For he who carries the pen, shall always lay down the sword.”
So for those to come and those who pass, and those who look past his broken glass.
Take a look deeper inside, and maybe you’ll find the secrets we hide.
Right now Im shaking.
Shiver and freeze in the darkness of my home.
Suddenly there is a toss, and Im thrown across my home.
There is more chatter, familiar voices, new voices, deep ones, and soft ones.
They overlap and make me close myself more to the world when suddenly im blinded.
Light courses through my home as the top is taken off and im taken out.
My latch rattles and shakes as the warmth envelopes me.
There’s a click of the latch and the rustling of pages.
Im listening, hearing, and remembering everything around me.
A girl broke up with her boyfriend.
A father sends his son home.
A child remembers the past and scribbles it down inside,
Staining the floor, the pages, the world I remember.
Im scared of what’s next, happy for the past, and forgetting the present.
I start to shrivel in the light.
My words fade and my stories told.
Im not forgotten but not remembered.
I feel burning. It hurts.
All I can feel is the pain, it burns.
I call out but no one hears me.
I cry out and then suddenly, as fast as it came it’s gone.
The latch is in place and it’s dark.
Almost as if it never happened.
But I remember.
No one else knows, or maybe they don’t care.
“Useless scrap, not worth my time.”
To that, I say you would pay my fine.
I have loved and lost,
cared and broke,
shattered and repaired.
But no one sees.
Just shiver and freeze in the darkness of my home.
I feel warm all of the sudden.
My home receives warmth.
It pulsates, it writhes against its constraints.
Hot and searing,
cold and locked,
even cracked in some places.
Turn my head, try as I might,
there are vessels that contain me from flight.
Bandages fall and blood has flown,
like the ink that makes my bones.
Chains like lava and locks like ice,
I played the game once and going on twice.
Looking down at paths divided,
seeing a world completely one-sided.
Connecting to chains and locks alike,
creating the worlds of fire and ice.
Once was whole, warm, and one.
Now unlocks for fewer than none.
The heart that is drawn and home to me,
where one too many have lost the key.
The key is broken beyond repair,
and there is no copy to give the heir.
So as I leave with my head down low,
headphones on in 6-foot snow.
This is the story as you may know,
of a boy who walks alone.
Headphones on, the world ahead,
and from his side all have fled.
One could say not by choice,
his story is told without a voice.
Picture to picture,
word to word,
cursing the heart of one whos been hurt.
So he enters a castle of fire and ice,
and chooses a path after checking it twice.
For the first time ever speaking alone,
this is how he walks on home.
And some forget
That his tears are wet.
He bleeds like you and feels regret.
And so he moves on his path,
Walking along with tears falling past
They drip and drop
All over the floor
He wishes he knew what happened once more
For his mind holds him back
His wires are tied and sent him off track.
So before we go and follow his body
Let’s see what the mind holds for nobody
Because as you take a sad little peek
You see a kid who cannot speak
His ears are gone
And tears flow red
He never knows what he did or said.
He forever wonders what he did wrong,
And hopes his friends would meet him head-on
But as he learns once again
They don’t get his mind, my friend
But moving on from the sidetracked road
Let us follow where he walked alone
So as he walks, trudges, and trips,
He finds a watery edge and a big blue ship.
Taking a step and falling right through,
not yet worthy, right or true.
So he dives into the deep.
Perfect form for an autistic freak.
No one hears him scream or gasp,
his voice didn’t come for long till past.
So he swims, dives and dashes, splashing through the miles of ashes.
Diving right under for one final time,
burst into flames as the clock will chime.
Emerging from a fiery embrace,
born anew like a phoenix that won the race.
His voice back and his eyes wide open,
writing and singing for those awoken.
So we bring the story to a close,
as my lock is latched for the last of those.
The heir has a key, the heart is healed,
and the boy no longer is concealed.
So walking along a watery path,
split with fire and born from ash.
He chooses to go down the middle road,
in which he no longer will walk alone.
His head held high and his headphones off,
he shall rise above this loss.
Loss of love, of hope, of light,
he guides himself through the night.
He closed my red leathery feel,
sealing my lock after his last reveal.
So he sits once again,
that slight hum starts to dim.
The fly that buzzed around is gone and left me onward bound.
Conversations finally come to a halt,
loud ones, quiet ones, and no ones at fault.
The story never really will end,
until he is heard from all that fall.
So while I may start to close,
keep an eye out for a red book they know.
Has dragons burning front and back,
sword on the spine to block an attack.
You never know what you’ll read until you find the writer’s seed.
You’ll know when you know what that is,
for it has been gifted to those who hid.