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Poetry Workshop
Saturday, 24 March 2007
To Run
Mood:  blue
Topic: Life

To Run

by Courtney John 

 

Born a life of misery
Died a life of death
Cutting my hand
Feeling the blood drip on to my arm then on my black shirt
I don’t’ feel the pain
All I feel is the hollow spot where my heart used to be
Scars plaster my legs from previous cuts
I stare at my bedroom walls
Once white, now stained with blood
My blood
Crying is a thing of the past
My tears are spent
Cutting is a thing of the future
My brother was a victim of suicide
He was my role model
I remember the funeral
Mother and father were crying
Black make- up streaked women’s faces
I was only three so I didn’t understand much
But that day changed my life
Mother stopped making food
Father ran
Two years later father had drown himself
I heard it on the newspaper
To think that I was once happy once in my life
Brings tears to my eyes
As I write this now I hear the boom of thunder
The sirens call their mournful lecture
I race outside to feel the wet rain patter my cheeks

It hasn’t rained for such a long time
I finally feel free
I spread my arms out and smile
I haven’t smiled forever
Then she comes
The monster that abused me for years and years to come
She grasped my wrists and pulls me back inside
To think that I thought I was free
Hopeless
They know
The students and the teachers
They examine my bruises and cuts
They tell me if I need help that I should ask for it
Their the ones who need help                                     
My life is like a wine bottle
The cork is screwed on too tight and I’m drowning
Now that I think about it I should run
Run away from the pain and the nightmares
Run away from mother coming home drunk
Running, running, running
I’ll run like father had
I wonder why he didn’t take me
Did he love me?   
Nobody loves me
I’m an ugly pig faced nothing
As free as a bug trapped in a jar
I took my backpack and stuffed all my junk in
I also pack ten bottles of Mountain Dew
And a pack of stale Girl Scout cookies


I opened my cracked window
And ran
I ran from my memories and my past
I kept running tell I was a good mile away
When mother was nice she said I was a good runner
She’ll probably find me
Although she’s drunk 99.9 percent of the day she’s smart
She’ll call the cops and have them find me
She’ll act like a good mother until they leave
Then she’ll probably beat me or starve me
One way or the other
I finally stopped running when I reached St. Louis Park
I sat at the bench watching the kids run around and laugh
I wish I was like them
To breathe with out worrying
To hug your mother and know you’re loved
 I’d like that
 My head was spinning in dreams
Now I’m back in reality
My supper was a bottle of Mountain Dew
It soon got dark and the people left
I felt alone and cold
There was no way I was going to sleep
I walked down and sat by the crystal clear lake
The beautiful water looked like silk
I could slip my hands through it and wash away my pain 
I laid my head down on the lush cool grass
Then I fell
I screamed and flailed my arms about


I was dropping in a big dark vacant hole
I felt scared and weightless
Then I awoke
It was all a dream
The sun pierced my eyes
The sound of squawking birds filled my empty ears
I got up and ate a few cookies
My pants were wet from the bone chilling dew
I walked over to a bench
What to do
I have nothing to do
I should probably be like a shadow
Not showing my face to public
You never know my face might be on milk cartons
I started walking
I walked past buildings, shops, and every thing in between
My legs started to feel rubbery
I sat down on the back road by a dumpster behind a shop
I breathed slowly
I needed my inhaler
I forgot it
How stupid am I
I’ll just sit down for a bit and relax
I inhaled the chemical induced air
Suddenly from behind the dumpster I heard feet 
I fell silent
I was truly scared
It must be the cops in search for me
I closed my eyes hoping they’d pass


Suddenly I heard some one asking me if I was okay
I opened my eyes
A boy a bit older then me was standing right there
I told him who I thought he was
He probably thought I was crazy or something
He just smiled
He told me his name was Jimmy
I told him what my name was and we became friends
We sat there a while telling each other our stories
He ran away too
Because his parents drank too much and would hit him
I told him he had it easy
Jimmy had shaggy black hair
And an old tattered sweat shirt that reeked of smoke
I never knew how much fun you could have in life
But then I met Jimmy
He showed me how to steal candy bars out of stores
He showed me how to sneak into the movie theater
He made me feel so happy
I even felt like I should go back home and tell mother to stop
But Jimmy didn’t want me to leave
He said he cared about me
For once in my life I felt what it was to feel loved
 It was that warm ecstatic feeling you got in your stomach
 I asked Jimmy if he did drugs
He said no, I was happy
I knew what drugs did to you
I saw my mother’s reaction
I will absolutely never do drugs



 On a Sunday near the dumpsters Jimmy pulled out a gun
I stared at him coolly thinking it was a fake
But he put his finger on the trigger
I panicked
I asked him why he was doing this
His eyes were strangely glazed
Did he do drugs?
He wouldn’t even talk to me
The next thing I knew the bullet went whizzing to my chest
The pain was unbearable
Like the emotions were coming out through my blood
I barely saw him through my blurry eyes
He watched me fall
Then walked away without a tear in his eye
Then my world went black



The subject’s friend Jimmy did in fact do drugs. He was high when he quickly stole a gun and shot the subject. After the subject’s death Jimmy soon woke up out of his hazy dream and remembered what he had done. He felt horrible, for he actually loved the subject. A day after Jimmy committed suicide and shot himself. The subject’s mother did not care wither her daughter died or didn’t. But the subject’s father was actually alive.

The mother gave the subject a fake newspaper and tricked her of her father’s death. The subject’s father was devastated and did commit suicide by drowning himself.



This story is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locals are used fictitously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. 


Posted by cookcomm at 7:53 PM CDT
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