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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: Re: My Life, The Illusion by Derrick Thomasdots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: lori_tab
    ASL Info:    27/f/alabama
    Elite Ratio:    4.33 - 1752/1517/481
    Words: 982
    Class/Type: Misc/Serious
    Total Views: 673
    Average Vote:    5.0000
    Bytes: 5132



    Description:
       In response to "My Life, The Illusion" a play by Derrick Thomas.


    Make the font bigger!! Double Spacing Back to recent posts.

    dotsRe: My Life, The Illusion by Derrick Thomasdots
    -------------------------------------------


    I remember thinking when I was 11 that he was being destroyed. That he was beautiful and there was something happening to him that I could not see.

    They have done this to him.

    And all this time I thought he hated me.
    I was afraid of his brilliance, awed by it. And at times he disgusted and angered me. BUt there was always an admiration for him that I couldn't put my finger on. Something that he was and something he could be that eluded me.

    This is what he was.

    He was a boy. He was sad. He was being lied to.

    This is what he is.

    He is a boy. Much the same. His sadness has not fleeted, merely grown. He has opened his eyes. He now can see farther than they care to tell him about. They have drawn the horizon for him. He traces it with his fingers. He feels it and holds it and rejects it to be able to sketch his own crippled trees here and there. To show them he's not ignorant.

    I want him to know that my intuition has always led me to believe that he was afraid of something. Maybe it really is the blank TV screen. Windows that only reflect back at him.He told me of this fear once. He tries to peer through his reflection. It is too dark tonight to see through his own eyes. But he is far from blind. He choses not to see. Or he did, the last night he gave me a window to look at with him. And I admit, I saw nothing. I WAS blind.

    Life took me away.
    "Time goes by so slowly"

    He is still there but I do not see him. Until I make mistakes. Mistakes I wish he could understand. Nothing can take away from the fact that the mistakes were of an offending nature, were contagious and diseased and dangerously hovering over the people I loved. And this disease that I held, I let it take over me to a point that I allowed exposure to beautiful minds.

    But I had nothing that day, I needed to buy. He had something he needed to buy, no money. He told a story to me about his car. His home. The things he was coming so close to losing. He said that if I were to do him a favor, if I would release him for his burden he would surely give me a good deal in return. It was the cash he needed. To put gas in his car. To keep his brother in a home. I was in a position to make a deal. I made that fatal leap. I do not deny that it was I who made the jump. And I left him, with my disease. I kept it in my pocket while I waited for her to stop scratching herself with ink. Leaping has a strange affect sometimes. Sometimes you land on your feet. Sometimes you crash.
    I free fell for and endless amount of time. And as I fell and fell, down and down, I decided that I didn't want my disease. I wanted nothing more that to release my body of its corruption. And it was a careless mistake that led me to crash. BUt a significant one none the less. And my only regret is that the disease did come close to people I loved. And I hated myself for that. Could never forgive myself for that. But I have, now being free from disease, decided to make it up. If I can ever really do this.

    I have looked at my life. I have stood away from it and peered at it through a strangers eyes. And what I saw was ugly. I saw an artist there, free from disease, still ugly, and hopeless. And she really has no talent. And her "brilliant" work is part of the illusion.

    But I will not let her ugliness become my disease. And I will not let her apathy and self destruction be my demise. I will walk with the crowd. Because when I tried to walk away, I failed. When I tried to see clearly, I failed. And there is nothing left for me now. My dreams are fading. Happiness is out of reach, and I accept that for myself. But for my mother, for my father, for the boy that I write this to. I will no longer be wasteful.
    I will paint. I will stand back from the canvas and look at what I can become.

    -----------------------------------------------

    A perspective

    She is seated next to him. He listens to his parents speak, hidden behind the door. She looks up at him and he gives a gesture for her to keep silent abour his presence. After tears and pain from his mother he finally gives away his position to give her a hug. To let her know that he loves her.


    Then they all sit in one room. They all speak in different conversations. The mother and father put out guilt to the children. She knows that they are selfish. They turn up another bottle of alchohol, they embrace their disease. THey live in its filth. they Speak of apathy by the children for letting it become such a mess.

    "So, Derrick, when you took the trash out this morning, just how many empty bottles could you have broken?" she thinks.

    " I could tell you how wrong you but I am just going to sit her and be silent " he says to his mother.

    And she knows he is right. And for just once, she wishes someone would say it.




    Submitted on 2006-08-14 12:49:22     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      "I remember thinking when I was 11 that he was being destroyed."

    I was about thirteen when you were eleven. What was going on that made you think that I was being destroyed?

    I've never really hated you. I can't ever remember why we stopped talking this last time. Probably something stupid. I always enjoyed talking to you. You are one of those rare people that I can say random thoughts to, and you will understand me. Or so I thought. And then that one time you told me that you 'did a lot of sucking up to me' and I was like, f*ck, was all that a lie? Did she really ever connect with me on anything we talked about? That hurt me a lot.

    "He was a boy. He was sad. He was being lied to."

    Is this talking about any specific lies, or just in general?


    "So, Derrick, when you took the trash out this morning, just how many empty bottles could you have broken?" she thinks.

    " I could tell you how wrong you but I am just going to sit her and be silent " he says to his mother.

    Eh. I remember this night. I don't remember what we were arguing about, maybe something to do with grandma? No matter.

    As long as I can remember, this has been the situation. I could have broken thousands of bottles in my life. Thousands. Its funny, mom and dad always lay there sh*t on me about how mom doesn't have a job cause she has to take care of grandma and dad is only making about $350 a week and how they don't have enough money to buy food and pay bills and all this crap, all while drinking beer/whiskey/smoking cigarrettes and other substances. They want me to help with the food and bills? Haha. F*ck that. When they get their priorities straight, if they still need help, I'll be glad to help. If we were really that much in need of money, then they need to sacrifice their precious poisons before begging me for money?

    Does that sound bad? Is it wrong for me not to want to give my money to my parents just so they can still have enough cash to get drunk every single night and smoke all day long? I don't think so. I do not support the slow poisoning of oneself, regardless of how hypocritical that may or may not be.

    Ah well, story of my life, you dig?

    Do I sound like Raivn?
    | Posted on 2007-02-21 00:00:00 | by Derrick Thomas | [ Reply to This ]
      this is very interesting i dont no why but the name derick thomas rings a bell somewhere in my mind
    my memory is slipping but all in all you wrote a great story but that is the usual as i alwaz like reading yor submissions

    hope all is well for you

    sandman
    | Posted on 2006-08-14 00:00:00 | by sandman | [ Reply to This ]
      They have drawn the horizon for him. He traces it with his fingers. He feels it and holds it and rejects it to be able to sketch his own crippled trees here and there.

    My absolute favorite lines in this. And you say you're not brilliant. And you talk of me wasting my potential. We all have our diseases. They just happen to be different. And one wonders if perhaps the powder wasn't the only disease. There is beauty in you, Jaz, but you hide it, and people try to smother it with lies and accusations and apathy. You could live up to your potential. But there are some things you have to let go. Some things that are holding you back.

    Derrick read this tonight, before I even did. I will let him tell you what he thinks about it, because I don't know. I only know his reaction.
    | Posted on 2006-08-15 00:00:00 | by Raivn | [ Reply to This ]
      this was way [censored] intense. holy [censored]. this was like one of those things . . . it is as if you reached up to the sky and pulled out a little piece of the meaning of life or something and put in print here. you're awesome jaz. you're [censored] awesome.
    | Posted on 2006-08-25 00:00:00 | by Solomon Disease | [ Reply to This ]


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