a first-year mistake in the haze of the end

a choice that i made that i now reprehend

awake now, before the sunrise

i never knew it would be my demise

to slink out of bed as reality sinks in

half awake at this hour, somehow that's a sin

i've found a cure to the haze of the dark dawn

and it isn't even anything like stifling a yawn

simply laying down and still is the cheat-code to energy

and waking up my mind with soft fictional memories

we in vauxrose again bohs

this is NOT the same narrator as the last vauxrose prose [HA] but ill let you figure out the fuck’s going on here

emerald tears cascade down my face

i weep for what was lost but nothing had lost its place

far was i from the site of the war

safe was i from the pain of the pressure

so why do i feel the grief of a widow?

why, in the night’s sky, do i drop to my knees and wail?

upon my tower is where i sat when it struck

but i was far enough away, thank my luck

perhaps it was my selflessness that cursed me so

a hefty price to pay for a life to remain

(chances are if you aren't my best friend and best little bro you might not know what the fuck is going on here but it's fine don't worry about it)

(this is a monologue from one of my upcoming ocs in his and i's [is that the right grammar? probably not] universe on the island of vauxrose, which is full'a architects)

we don't talk about the emerald disaster.

it's the dark shadow to our perfect island, but the traces of it remain, no matter how much we ignore it.

because of it, we lost an important soul to our community.

how ignorant i was in my path...

i should have known they were up to something.

the retro glow is one that i can't truly enjoy, but a demon worth a slay is what drew me in.

something seemed strange, that one's aura.

i should have known their coming would mean a war.

they befriended one of the nicer ones.

and he seemed happy, too.

they were like brothers, one could not be seen without the other.

on the day they broke the camel's back, the day it all came crashing down...

the rest is history.

we don't know where either of them are now.

the area of impact has been quarantined, only people like myself can enter it.

i know the witness has gone elsewhere, as they didn't want to hurt their friends.

..............

i could have stopped this.

no.

we could have stopped this.

i have to find them.

this isn't going to rest on our--MY shoulders anymore.

i'm going to come find you.

you'll pay for the impact you had.

I proclaimed “Bullshit” in full-tilt teacher voice as soon as the student finished his sentence. You could have heard a pin drop, had anyone in the class dared to drop anything.

Months later, a student would describe it to me as “that day you lost your temper,” but he was only half right. Genuine anger impelled the speech, but it was entirely calculated. I had seen the moment coming; I selected my words carefully. I had a message to send, and I wanted them to talk about it for as many months afterward as I could muster. I had only been waiting for the comment that would bring it all out into the open.

“You shouldn’t expect us to get this, Mr. Love,” John had said. “We’re just botards.”

botard, [BOE – tahrd] n. (slang) a derogatory term for one who studies vocational

education, suggestive of reduced intelligence. Origin a combination of BOCES

(New York State’s Board of Cooperative Educational Services, which handles

vocational training) and “retard.”

“Bullshit,” I spat. “That is absolute bullshit and it’s an excuse. I don’t care what you plan to do for a living, you are capable of this, and don’t you dare tell yourselves otherwise. Is reading an 18th century essay hard? Yes! But don’t you dare pretend you can’t do it because you go to BOCES. Do you know how much intelligence it takes to fix a car, or cook, or run heavy equipment? I have a Master’s Degree. I couldn’t change the oil in my car to save my life. I could write a lovely poem about it, but I have no clue how to do it. I can’t fix an engine. I can’t blend makeup. I barely recognize any colors that don’t appear in a basic Crayola box. Intelligence comes in a hundred different shapes. I don’t ever want to hear the word “botard” again. The idea that people who get trained in a trade are dumb is bullshit.”

“Jeez Mr. Love, OK,” John said, awkward, surprised smile on his face. (I was glad it was John. I knew he’d roll with it.)

“Not at all mad at you, John,” I added. “It could have just as easily been someone else. But you’re smarter than some people give you credit for, and it pisses me off.”

And then we discussed our excerpt from Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.

Want people to be smarter?

Stop telling them they’re stupid.

bustling city in the trees far away

is where my life has taken me, so i don't go astray

the first day was loud, and i thought i'd finally figured out

how to make friends of real people, and the joy it would bring about

but yet i sit so far away

is it my fear that drives me, the fear of that decay?

is it that i fear the worst, that tells me to stay away?

or is it not i that sits on my haunches

and i am just not worth the fray?

i understand why they'd go away

at every noon where lunches are our prey

i'm just too much to handle, dare i say

but with the state i'm in now

i dont think i'd like it any other way

the only thing holding us all back from eating slices of pie like we eat slices of pizza is the abstract man-made concept of manners and formality

we call it a PIZZA PIE and we eat the pizza like we do cause it's thin but nuh-no to pie?? we gotta eat it with a fork like some sorta heathen??? cowardice i say >8/

seafoam lilies dotting the trees of pine

once again i find myself with a heart wrapped in vines

too many men i have seen as unconditionally divine

yet after every time i dare to seek it i merely drown in wine

never once did i ever think that i should ever draw the line

but the gods are keen on torturing me, all according to their design

seafoam lilies dotting the trees of pine

yet again i've fallen for a fellow quite divine

time and time again he's grabbed me by my waistline

making me shiver and making me whine

but the feelings i hold for him remain genuine

what must i do to claim him as mine?

show him that he's worthy of being worshipped like a shrine?

o gods, i beg you to give me a sign

for the eyes of my colleagues drill into mine

exhaustingly scorning me for pursuing once again

what has only left me downing bottles of moonshine

but maybe this time the stars will align

maybe this time he might incline

maybe this time their feelings will be just as genuine

maybe this time i'll finally end up fine

seafoam lilies dotting the trees of pine

upon the mountains far from the valley

where the people they once knew still do wander

sits an exiled beast, hateful yet somber

cursed is the monster that sits on the peak

gazing in envy towards a village so weak

what else can be done when the walls fall down

and the village people dream of seeing you drown?

sealed shut was the beast by the village’s self-proclaimed leader

when the lowest peasant fell to a sharp-tongued voice

once the waves did subside and the community conflict die

the leader spoke to the beast once a god, telling them a secret

not a soul knew but them

that the voice that cut deep belonged to the soul who lead the village

gazing upon the village is the beast who kept their promise that day

but one day revenge would find its way

for when they dared to dance with the dark the leader chased them away

screaming that they had allies who thought the same as she

the time would come, but all that was left was to wait

to tear the wings off the angel who dared to sin and act still pure

but yet the beast ponders in its brain as it wanders away

would there have been another way to remain?

or were their attempts to return to a place it’s always been

all in vain?