18 Years


“Fuck you,” I shout at the sky,
both middle fingers extended fully,
boiling tears stream down my nose and cheeks,
corroding and burning as they roll.
I return to my room,
my eight by ten cell.
“Please end me,” I beg the silence in the sky.
Every ugly face is of an enemy,
fangs lurk under fake smiles,
hatred coursing through my veins.


I stare in a mirror,
the ugliest face of all stares back.
The man before me can barely fake a smile,
his fangs cut his lips.
He is hollow,
I know if I cut him open there will be nothing inside.
I cut his wrists,
the sight of blood convinces me I am wrong.


My voice SQUEAKS upon first use,
but it is loud.
My Family cringes in disgust,
in pain,
as my high pitched SQUACK cuts their ears.
They quickly acclimate,
and SQUACK back,
several shrieking voices drown out my fresh new one.
I SQUACK louder,
they SQUACK louder.
The flower that I SQUACK for has been stepped on,
it has been crushed.
I try to prune,
to salvage any petals.
The flower wilts and falls dead.
I return to my nest,


Home now,
there are family members,
but the walls are unfamiliar.
This is not the place I left.
Yet the eight by ten cell feels the same.
Concrete columns under overpasses,
sing out to my like Syrens.
Every fiber of my soul wants to go.
They say I’m sick.
I go into a building,
there is a bed ridden woman,
who wails like a banshee.
I’m not that sick.


I found a new flower!
And pollinated it.
The flower wilted and died anyway.
I went in to work,
I followed orders,
I did as I was told,
I was a good drone.
The buzzing heightened in my ears.
Despite my act,
I was never part of the hive.
When the buzz began to feel as if my ears would explode,
I took honey to relieve it.
I took more and more honey.
I’d rather die filled with honey,
than live with constant buzz.
They returned me to the building.
A man tells the nurse that he needs his headphones for when his lawyers come in,
to sue everyone.
I am not that sick.


A new flower has bloomed.
I dare not pluck it,
but water it frequently.
This flower is planted firmly,
in a place I cannot grow.
I’m happy to stagnate in this flower’s garden.
The flower continues to bloom,
it’s majesty is blinding.
I worry about the flower’s soil, is the soil poisonous.
Will other plants grow too intensely,
and choke out my flower.


My flower still remains.
In fact it has a sapling.
I still fear the soil,
but now I fear the rain,
I worry that the flower will drown,
that the sapling will wash away,
the rain blurs my eyes,
and I cannot clearly see my flower,
or my sapling.
I fear the sun,
I fear the petals getting scorched.
I squint in its blinding light,
but cannot see my flower,
or my sapling.
I fear the air.
My flower and my sapling are making more oxygen,
than I can breathe.
I begin to breath shallow and quick.
My head is light
and black starts to surround my vision.
I lay on my back,
and I blink awake.
The flower and the sapling stare at me.
I cannot tell if they are real.
I do not want to see the woman wailing,
or the man asking for his headphones,
but I think I am that sick.

Published by Michael Christopher Cole

Michael, is a highly motivated, filmmaker and video professional. Coming from a marketing background, Michael knows not only the ins and outs of a quality video, but also how to make the most impact across various media platforms. In addition to his work with Chocolate Diamond Media, Mike enjoys family time with his wife and son, traveling, and reading.

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