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    dots Submission Name: Chained Child - 1st editiondots

    Author: scienceyear
    ASL Info:    30 male Binghamton, NY
    Elite Ratio:    5.82 - 81/27/3
    Words: 1736
    Class/Type: Poetry/Serious
    Total Views: 1260
    Average Vote:    5.0000
    Bytes: 11046

       This is a long but rewarding piece to read. It is a semi-autobiographical poem inspired by one of Deborah Koff Chapin's tarot-like Soul Cards. I was inspired to confront some long buried issues, as does the main character. This poem details my life's struggles with hydrocephalus, grand mal seizures, and depression. Read it and you may be inspired to find meaning in some of your own struggles.

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

    dotsChained Child - 1st editiondots

    Child cast with perfect imperfection.
    Deck not stacked, no dice yet rolled.
    Child spends his potential as all children do,
    dreaming every dream with no sense of limitation.

    Plague hits.
    Infection of child's earliest memory.
    Head flooded by fluid and confusion both,
    only one to be corrected.

    Scarred misfit replaces child.
    Scars tell the tale of the body's war,
    is the mind within yet stitched?

    Children question what and why.
    Child grows weary of this interrogation.
    Cries. Laughed at.
    Too young to understand
    that the children aren't cruel,
    just curious.

    He shuts them out.
    He starts growing his chains that day.
    Chains of self-loathing,
    chains of self-denial.

    The child is branded fragile
    for his battle with the flood.
    He is held away from common play
    of peers who might have saved him.
    In solitude, he spends time on his chain,
    more certain in his conviction
    that he is a defective other.

    Confined to watch while others were free,
    the chained child grows into his bonds,
    naming them, calling them home.
    The welcome mat is pulled in.
    The child is an ' it ' to study, a novelty.
    He's not in the mood.

    wretched solitude.
    Mentors' voices call through layers of doors slammed,
    finally drowned by the muffled screams of a heart denied
    and the distant echo of the child's cry
    as he is sent away again, the nuisance

    The child's reins snap him back to attention,
    attention to be directed to work and study,
    the child now slave to letters
    on page after blinding page
    as he fights off sleep.

    Vision now poisoned by the chants of the child,
    a stain cast forever on his mind -
    a bias so foul against the mirror
    that compliments would reek
    of condescension for a decade beyond.

    Sheltered by the thin skin of achievement,
    chained child feels few lashes of the whip of rejection,
    but shades of ambivalence hide only minute reaction.

    Time passes. Plague revisits.
    Chained child rattled by convulsions,
    his brain rocked in conscious' absence.
    The ocean beckons. His answer muted.
    The chains have grown with him.
    Sirens scream with piercing tones.
    Chained child would never answer.

    Hands extend, dozens in hindsight,
    some raise warning signs, others wave red flags.
    Most are written off as old fools.
    Road-weary mind writes few in credits.
    Head in the sand.
    Suffocates will and slowly desire, but never need.
    There would be those few who would continue to throw
    for sometime the lines that fail to reach the child,
    escaping attention at times, chased from attention at others.
    Their efforts would slowly wane.

    Or perhaps there were too many for any single one to be heard.
    In reflection, the child would later recall the unjustly unsung,
    vivid pictures of those for whose aid he was not ready.

    Eluding them, he looms ever closer to crisis,
    torturing the will of those guardians until it breaks for all but a few.
    There were many unheralded who pushed him back enough
    from the brink to resuscitate his will another day.
    Modest medals of gratitude would await the return of the heroes,
    some no doubt lost in their own struggles.

    With all would-be rescuers out of the way,
    the child could be a martyr despite his blessings.

    Bridge of sand collapses,
    every sting of life felt,
    meaning lost,
    best times feel absolutely numb,
    still driven by old habits,
    plots various demises,
    dragged from the brink by counsel,
    now saw seizures as blessing -
    prior proof of some brain defect,
    a curse turned cure.
    While some of his peers
    would question their character
    for needing medication, for the child,
    it was one more pill for a damaged brain.

    heights of vanity now
    grounded by personal plague,
    brought eye-to-eye with those
    who look so small from so high,
    taunted by the chatter of those still riding high,
    the memory of days gone by
    and dreams now crushed,

    Dethroned. Robe, sceptor, crown discarded.
    New ear for messengers far and wide.
    Hurt and humbled yet made much stronger
    and truly proud for the first time.
    First recovery was sweet.
    Old habits would cling still.
    A lifetime war would continue
    with many a ceasefire.

    A score had passed since last
    a blow was dealt by the floods.
    Now they exacted their vengeance.
    Chained child learns the breakdown
    of logic and personality.
    This thing pretends to represent you
    and acts in your stead.
    Life changing, humiliating, dread.. failure.
    So it seemed.
    The next epiphany for chained child
    would come at this dark hour.
    Beaten by primitive plumbing.
    This perfect failure of mind over matter
    would grant chained child the privilege
    of understanding a piece of the cruel experiences
    of his sickest fellow man.
    His actions were foreign to him,
    and his mind made no record of it
    but for the heresay of kin.

    Final plague befalls chained child.
    A wretched thing that will have no prisoner.
    Fury for the invisible beast
    consumes chained child far faster,
    hastening his demise.

    Soul returns to the familiar depths
    of unforgiving torment
    he'd known only in mind.
    chained child pines for even the most
    miserable days of life.
    Days of deprivation
    now seen as times of bounty.
    The final days of dying cast in this light
    seem youthful and vigorous.
    Of course it's equally as distorted as
    the child's original self-pitying perception.
    He dresses these memories up to further
    degrade himself here.
    He needs no help in this.
    He is surrounded and assaulted by
    his now - external demons with no mercy.

    Chained child, now stranded
    by offenses of dim recollection.
    He revisits the prisons he'd built for himself
    in life with heavier chains around his neck and limbs,
    suspending him above the scenes of old.
    He's no choice but to gasp for breath
    forcing the surrounding air, rich with the stench of death,
    in and out of his lungs as he bares tortured witness
    to invitations tossed, loved ones disregarded,
    debts unpayed, promises shattered....
    the making of fate.

    Child submits to this onslaught of guilt
    and ultimately starts contributing his own.
    Thus he defines his Hell not unlike the one
    he built in life in his mind.
    Indulging in this familiar misery,
    the child loses his vision of all else.

    The child is wrenched from this dream
    by a thundering mob becoming one among thousands.

    The child looks around, bewildered,
    when he is grabbed roughly by the shoulders
    and in his ear is yelled,

    "You fell for a common trap, friend!
    You believed your imperfections
    were the slightest bit unique!
    We all could have aided one another.
    We must all do so now."

    Face of the enemy rendered clear,
    haunting memories of cherished choices tossed,
    litany of regrets flood the mind,
    a flood with no levy's relief.
    But the child now knows these images
    are what bonds him with these rioting souls,
    not what separates him.
    With this realization he thrusts his way to the front lines.
    It is unlike any battle he'd ever seen or heard of.

    Transgressors fight alongside their very victims
    to restore their dignity and redeem their crimes.
    The slain and their slayers unite
    against the demons of slaughter.
    The assaulted and their assailants
    unite against assault.
    Those who were their own victims join together
    facing the many demons of self-destruction,
    thus helping avenge each other's losses
    while for the first time being their own allies as well.
    Sins remain under constant seige,
    receiving no rest for the unrest
    they cause amongst humanity.
    This plain holds no refuge from one's demons,
    but more significantly, it offers no refuge for them.

    Like building the tower of Babel,
    this war may see no end.
    It is the very feud that fuels
    the flames of the inferno itself.
    Like the revolt of legend that spawned its host,
    this revolt would seem to onlookers futile.
    But this assembled army left doubt behind.
    The pains met in battle pale to those relieved
    when their long lived demons are vanquished
    before their very eyes.
    Those seemingly crippled by fatigue
    can fight on forever once
    such a vision revives them.
    And these warriors are a hard lot to kill,
    mortal flesh having been
    surrendered upon admission.

    One might think that with
    a goal so grand and distant,
    hopelessness would plague the ranks.
    On the contrary, the smallest of victories
    are celebrated gloriously
    at banquets where the combatants
    wear the scent of brimstone
    like cologne and dine by the candle
    lit from the faint fires of those
    whose souls had scant will
    left in their morbid luggage.

    So my mortal audience,
    while this realm I've described
    may bare little resemblance
    to the one you may inhabit,
    it may still impart a lesson of some relevance.
    Suffer as you may in life, it seems in the end
    not to be ultimate success that matters,
    but rather that you try,
    that you keep trying,
    that you eventually die trying....

    ...and even try again.


    Submitted on 2005-12-17 21:32:25     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
    Submissions: [ Previous ] [ Next ]

    Rate This Submission

    1: >_<
    2: I dunno...
    3: meh!
    4: Pretty cool
    5: Wow!

    ||| Comments |||
      I am deeply and overwhelmingly impressed! This was soooo long....but through out it all....I was so involved in it. You told the whole tale here with such intellect that it can leave one wanting to read the next chapter!

    You put truth in this and never lost the poetic half of it. Many may not see the difficulty that this may have taken....but I do. I have tried to sit and pull something off like this. I have succeeded a few times. Many times though....I lose that initial UMPH that I had to begin with and it goes as a piece of Art never finished.

    I commend you on all that you wrote here. When I got to the part where you spoke of the Tower of Babel....I really was taken into this write.


    Much love,

    Li Li
    | Posted on 2006-04-10 00:00:00 | by Munchie_1226 | [ Reply to This ]
      "with perfect imperfection" implies so much. wonderful beginning.

    like lebeauvide, i have an excedingly short attention span. however, something made me want to read this to the end. well done. on a longer piece, it would be easy to lose the readers' interest, change pace/flow, etc... you have done well to not.

    "Children question what and why.
    Child grows weary of this interrogation.
    Cries. Laughed at.
    Too young to understand
    that the children aren't cruel,
    just curious"
    There is something very moving about this stanza.

    "unjustly unsung" is cool, too.

    The feelings of this person are brought forth unbelievably clear in the choice of words, the short to-the-point sentances, etc... You can feel the gratitude to the "helpers", the hopelessness at times, the anger at others, and all this in merely an explenation of why this person is the way they are.

    "Bridge of sand collapses,
    every sting of life felt,
    meaning lost,"
    Unbelievable passage! Read those words over and over again. There is something very striking in them.

    This is one of the most powerful pieces I have read yet!

    This is a very serious piece, and one that i assume is very personal to you. So, one thing to consider is the "Beaten by primitive plumbing" in stanza 20. It is almost comical. the last two words, i mean. Don't take this the wrong way, but it made me chuckle when i read it, and i don't think that is the impression to want to leave with this statement. I understand what you are saying, but the wording just throws me off.

    "Thus he defines his Hell not unlike the one
    he built in life in his mind" WOW. "Thus he defines his Hell" There is something about this passage as well. Very moving. Maybe, however, put the "in his mind" elsewhere in the sentance? It doesn't read through smoothly. Actually, I was playing around with it, and it almost sounds better without it entirely. "Thus he defines his Hell not unlike the one
    he built in life." But that's just my opinion.

    I would entirely cut out the last part.
    "So my mortal audience,
    while this realm I've described
    may bare little resemblance
    to the one you may inhabit,
    it may still impart a lesson of some relevance.
    Suffer as you may in life, it seems in the end
    not to be ultimate success that matters,
    but rather that you try,
    that you keep trying,
    that you eventually die trying....

    ...and even try again."
    This is another place where it would almost be better without it. It has an important aspect, yes, but is distracting from the rest of the poem, where it was more the life story, now you're talking to the reader. ILt belongs more as a dedication or "about the artist" type thing than IN the work.

    | Posted on 2006-03-27 00:00:00 | by Whildkaht | [ Reply to This ]
      holy crap, that was a long freakin comment! sorry about that. I will try to keep 'em shorter.
    | Posted on 2006-03-27 00:00:00 | by Whildkaht | [ Reply to This ]
      Wow this took me forever to read, but I have to say, it was worth it. the title caught my eye, as well. The words just speak ( if that made any sense???)

    I really loved:
    Suffer as you may in life, it seems in the end
    not to be ultimate success that matters,
    but rather that you try,
    that you keep trying,
    that you eventually die trying...

    ...and even try again.

    I think this is brilliant, and I shall be adding it to my faves.
    | Posted on 2006-03-13 00:00:00 | by lebeauvide | [ Reply to This ]
      Usually when I click on a poem and it has such length to it, I usally click back out becuase I can never commit myself to reading it and being fair to the writer with my comments. Not so here. I read it, and actually, I went back and I reread it again. I loved this. I haven't used this word yet in any of my comments made, however, I like it. Silent Death uses Intense. I love that. Perfect. Yes Intense! Good job!
    | Posted on 2006-02-23 00:00:00 | by nicklacymatthew | [ Reply to This ]
      This was absolutely incredible
    My friend this is one of the best poems I have ever read!
    This is written perfectly and really describes the battle one goes thru in accepting themselves
    I too certainly look forward to reading more of your writes
    Simply Suberb
    This is a favorite
    God Bless
    | Posted on 2006-02-22 00:00:00 | by Ronswords | [ Reply to This ]
      I love the writing, had a really hard time getting through it...I have a short attention span. It was so long...perhaps breaking it down into sections? I felt you though, and it made me sorry for your experiences.
    | Posted on 2006-02-22 00:00:00 | by Jill Lynne | [ Reply to This ]
      Wow yeah that was long but it was well, well worth the read. I really liked this one...it was intense and in the moment...your imagry was perfect and it really felt as if the reader was there, living it. This was a very dark, depressing and almost haunting piece but it was true, and almost too honest. There was a lot of talent put into this write and I sincerely hope that more people read this...it was very inspiring and most definatly a favorites add...I'm going to have to keep checking in with you if you write anything this good agian:) I loved this! hope to read many more from you soon.
    | Posted on 2006-01-02 00:00:00 | by silent_death12 | [ Reply to This ]
      i did not read this for the fact that it is too lonbg, i sugest you to break it done, unless it is someone eles', well, i can imagin it is good.
    | Posted on 2005-12-17 00:00:00 | by in_a_trap | [ Reply to This ]

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