if you think im an illiterate stoner , read below.
the life and the old house by nick wood
im building a new house
i want a new house with all my hearts desire
the reason why is because its new
it will have all new people for its walls to hold.
it will have brand new decor for the old is too worn
it will contain the peoples love and loyalty
their lives will fill the house and make it home
to everyone else who crosses its threshold it will not be home
but to me and my family it will feel and smell like home
the place where you feel safe from the demons that plague us
it will look like home to me
perhaps my new house will come with a new life
or is it that the house i speak of is the beginning my new life?
how you percieve it is of no importance
the home, my life, and its contents are important.
right?
what is plaguing me is the old house.
and the old ways. the old life is occupying valuable space in my mind. i know that the past doesnt belong here.
right?
but you dont understand,
my son, he used drugs in the old house
he felt safe using drugs in the basement of the old house.
he felt like the world couldnt touch him in the old house
my son, drove me insane every night with fear in the old house
fear of losing him, fear acccompanied by crippling worry.
but my heart told me he was safe in the old house
and my conscience tells me other things
once my conscience told me to go downstairs
i didnt know why , why i should go downstairs
i didnt care, i just did it, as random as it was
9, 10, 11, 12 is the sound of me counting the steps down
at nine my heart jumped
at ten i moved quicker
at eleven i thought of my son
at twelve i saw the trail of blood
i froze solid for a moment
my mind refused to send the necessary signals to my body to move
so, frightened and unsure , my conscience led journey continued
following the trail of blood, it increasing in volume
suddenly it stopped in front of the door of the bathroom
the bathroom that was in the basement
the basement where he felt safe from the world
i opened the door to a horrid sight for a mothers eyes to see
him, standing over the toilet forcing out even more than the already pouring amounts of blood staring blankly at the ground. looking very calm, cool, fearless.
the basement was his place to fear not the dangers of the world
my son he cut himself, in the basement of the old house feeling safe in its arms safe enough to inflict the pain of cutting wrist onto his body to ease the pain of losing his sister, being a bi-polar, manic depressive, drug addicted, high-school drop out , the common aches of society which we as the human race must battle everyday
my son didnt see it clearly that the affore mentioned problems he experienced hadnt defeated him in any respect ,
quite the contrary they were piled up mighty high for such a beginner at life yes, but they were merely patiently waiting for my son to dispose of them. to sweep the floor and under the rug and clean up his life.
the thing about the old house that i hate.is my daughter she wasnt like my son well shall i say her life didnt turn out like his in the earlier stages and for the majority of her life she remained a sucess she loved life she loved the house she too felt safe in the house.
her first choice was not the basement
she hated the smell
but one day ultimately the basement chose her due to some of my sons circumstances and constantly changing situations and arrangements. so she had a room upstairs , close to the world, she could always open her shades to view a beautiful sun and observe the world through the safety of the house or shut them when she was scared and feel that much safer for being a little further away from the worlds dangers
that well represents 16 years of her life but when she turned 17 and she began working, her relationship with her brother with which she had always been best friends. some kind of force brought them together and teamed them up . all this force did in retrospect was tie them tightly together and buckled and strapped them together into the seat to ensure they wouldnt escape because they would soon be on the ride of their life. their lack of experience and defiant young attitudes was like tying a brick to the gas pedal of the car they were strapped in. being in the basement made my son feel safe, comfortable, free from harm, somewhat content occasionally, and my daughter, well she never really had very much worry from the start due to her frequent and impressive accolades. my daughter always made me proud to be responsible for her .she didnt know or didnt need to know about what it feels like to experience the amount of pain that induces thoughts of suicide and such hopelessness. she didnt know how it feels for someone you love and cherish to be gone forever never to be seen or heard or watched or here again.
my son wasnt safe in the basement in the old house.
he merely imagined his safety , he was free yes, but with freedom comes responsibility, and when you ignore responsibility as it comes , danger lurks close behind with its targets direclty on your temple and its finger on the trigger , simply waiting for the perfect second to take you out. the danger is the world it comes from and the danger wants my son to take responsibility for his crimes and for his lack of accountability and my son will not do what the world needs him to do to occupy its space so the danger wants him dead. waiting to take the perfect shot
this poem is only an excerpt from a book im working on so i would really love some feedback and i can take good and bad advice just write your thoughts because i will use them in the form of constructive criticism