Chills

I turned 5 recently, not that anyone noticed. Mom was busy with the PTA campaign. We've all been avoiding that subject altogether ever since then. In case you didn't hear, things did not turn out as mom so confidently planned. It is not easy to see mom lose. I have turned to poetry writing in this very difficult time.

Chills


Staring through the fleshy window
but looking at nothing
because there is nothing
where there was something

It's shrinking; both of them
dying in the light that grows
Irritated by the brightness
the brightness it won't let in

Shutting, shutting, shutting,
Shutting automatically to protect
To protect from something
so contrasted from what's internal

Shutting. Not to hold in.
But shutting to keep out.
There is nothing worth holding in
Yet a fear that something is worse than nothing

Turning, moving, leaving, walking
Keeping away from the brightness
Left wandering to prevent
Left wandering to protect and prevent

Protect from what causes chills.
Protect from what causes chills.

The Daughter of Royalty

I've been licking envelopes all day for mother's PTA president campaign. I'm a little nervous about her being in leadership. Everyone is already constantly watching our family and I think this may bring us under even greater scrutiny. I wrote a poem to express my feelings on the subject:

Royalty: By Fortify Jones

Like royalty.
All are watching, and always wondering.
Royalty.
Too much pressure not to fall.
That's royalty.
All are wanting but not understanding.
My royalty.
It's hard to always stand so tall.
As royalty.

~I'm Crying For Help

My Rap

Well I guess I need to start picking out a dress for this season's pageants. Isn't there more to life than this? Isn't there more to life than looking beautiful and sexy on stage while gawking judges rate my performance? I know that now that I'm four years old, I have to start figuring out my future. I can't be a kid forever.

Last night I recorded my thoughts in a rap, which I would perform if my mommy let me listen to rap music:

Dropping a rhyme
like a pantomime,
all in due time
what's my crime?

I'm only four,
and nothing more,
shut the door,
life's such a chore.

Living and breathing,
always deceiving,
then comes grieving
no more believing.

[10 minutes of beat-boxing and jazz hands]

And now I'm tired,
of being inspired,
when everyone's wired
and fully perspired.

Dropping that rhyme
like a pantomime,
all in due time.
That's my crime!

~I'm Crying For Help

Mommy Helps Teacher

Although it is so far past my bedtime right now, I wanted to check in and let you know that things are going just fine around here. My preschool teacher has told me five times this week that I should probably move out of her class and into a more challenging environment. I insist on staying to help the other kids. Mommy also comes by the classroom once an hour to check on things and make sure all of the children are being productive. I can tell that teacher likes this because every time mommy leaves, I see teacher run through several exercises to get herself to calm down while repeating, "violence isn't the answer. Violence isn't the answer." It's very clear to me that this dwindling self-control is a result of no longer having mommy around to make sure things are running smoothly. Mommy constantly gives teacher great advice on how to be a better educator and then mommy follows up on teacher's progress daily. I also lend a hand when I'm not too busy tutoring the less gifted children.

Today I wrote this poem about my feelings (it's in another language):

Per diam. Per diam oh no se in per diam.
Yo perse i tellephono i per diam
Bu inakshe i no se po dohe.
Wo. Wo wo wo wo WO.

~It Just Gets More Beautiful

2011

This year I would like to learn 5 new languages. I know what you're thinking, "why not aim higher Fortify! You are going to be five years old soon after all!" I just don't know whether I'll have time to do more with my babysitting business I'm running now (we have 12 babysitters now and it isn't easy to manage all of them).

Happy new year, dear friends. I wish my classmates could read, but unfortunately most of my readers are grown-ups.

~It Just Gets More Impressive

I Wrote a Poem On My Way To Violin/Tennis/Latin Class

Today I wrote this poem, feeling a little somber about my life choices. I have to choose a school soon. It's hard being four.


Doubting that distasteful darkness,
Daring to see it but losing it to inflamed scents
Leaves my mortified midnight mentored madness
Trickling down abandoned scapeways like few strangling pents

And that distasteful darkness lumes more brightly,
And screams an impossible use of a language which noone created
Which everyone stretches to master as though their worth is in it
In the criticism of the remarks deemed tasteful yet inflated.

And self-inflicted life tragedy motivated pains lume more brightly
And yet who creates the tragedy? Simple plight--
Enough plight to fill the night and consume the salt stenched drizzle
To make one believe they control nothing forbidden from the light.

Who sees the light amid the waste or unseen
This is one whose doubts of distasteful darkness
Disassemble at the blow of a greater power whose light--
That light amid it, leads astray the mentored madness

Gripping the sanity granted forever as a weapon--
A weapon against the distasteful darkness
Feeling the gravity of that sanity slowly seeping
Through the bodiless mass left helpless in the plight

But something worth holding--that motivates greater than tragedy--
Which amid the worst of the blow pierces insanity and calls--
Calls for long term and pleads for eternity
But still left with the madman who rises or falls.

And in that moment he abandons the distasteful darkness
And takes the more powerful hand who has grasped
And made the one what could create the gravity of the sanity
Left to remember the lesson now learned.

~It Just Gets More Confusing