Lips The Colour Of A Rose (Repost)

A lot of people have been asking me to post pictures onto my blog. Now, since my blog is dedicated solely to my writing, I have been pondering and debating with myself how I would manage to post a relevant picture. About a year ago, I drew a picture based on one of my poems, Lips The Colour Of A Rose and so I have decided to share it with my readers. I hope you like it.

Sometimes it’s the quieter people in life who really make the difference.

This was an essay that I wrote for class. Names have been changed to protect the identities of the concerned people involved in this story. I hope you enjoy it.

Sometimes it’s the quieter people in life who really make the difference.

“Zimbabwe’s Mugabe threatens foreign-owned companies”

“One Syrian family lost 21 in suspected chemical attack”

“Have crimes against humanity been committed in Egypt?”

In a world full of chaos and turmoil, sometimes all I want to do is get away from the noise that is Egypt crumbling and Syria’s civil wars, South African corruption and Zimbabwe’s mysterious election results.

June 11, 2012: I feel the warmth of the mohair against my neck as I zip up my winter coat. Today is the start of the day camp that I will be counselling – a camp for special needs children who desire extra TLC. I am nervous that, perhaps, something may go wrong. What if the child to whom I am assigned does not like me? I fear that my inexperience will render me unfit to handle the needs of this child. These are the fears that inhibit my fragile confidence.

Whilst I am in the car, my mother is talking. The weather – an extra cold front in the already cold months of winter – is her topic of choice. I look out of the window; the overcast day seems a little more heavy than usual. Trees, people walking their dogs and other cars flash past. At the Gauteng speed limit, the world is oblivious to me and my emotions just as I am oblivious to theirs. My mother stops at a red light.

“A bit of money? Some food please,”

I look directly into the face of the beggar. I shake my head apologetically as my mother puts the car into gear and pulls off. The quiet beggar is left behind.

I arrive at the camp and am soon introduced to the child of whom I will be taking care. Immediately I recognise that this is a child who has fears, needs and dreams, not just a special needs case. Together with Michelle, a friend of mine, I will be looking after Adam. With his large, dreamy eyes and clumsy tongue, this boy of five has the clear symptoms of a rare form of Autism. This diagnosis affects his relationships with people, resulting in Adam being a very shy and quiet boy. This condition also affects his ability to function and enjoy the small things that other children his age may enjoy.

For four days we help the children view the world in which they live in a different, happier light. We go ice-skating, to the arcades and to the zoo. On the fourth and final day, while making flowers out of paper, I feel a little hand on my lap. I look up and immediately my heart feels as if it will burst with pride. In the hands of this child is a paper flower, presented to me from him. The joy and protection that I feel for this young child are tangible: I feel myself tear up. I quickly blink the moisture away to avoid frightening the child.

On the way back home, I see the beggar again. We once again stop at the red light and he once again begs for food or money. I am torn because I have nothing to give him and yet if someone like Adam can make me something out of nothing more than paper, then I can give this man something of myself.

I twirl the paper flower around in my fingers. I sense that I have been blind to the opportunities that have been presented to me: I have been given a chance to spend my light my making someone else smile.

I roll the window down and hand the beggar the bright paper flower.

 “I’m sorry sir, but it’s all I have,”

His eyes shine like bouncing marbles. I never knew that a person’s face could literally shine, yet I see genuine joy radiating from his dirty face. His expression shows that he sincerely appreciates this gesture.

The quietest boy, supposedly hindered by his disability, in his simple innocence, has taught me something that I am still reminded of, little more than a year later. The little boy named Adam with Autism had made me realise that sometimes it is the quieter people in life who really make the difference.

Contrition

Small tears, lots of fears, when will all of this pain seize?
How do I disguise the lies for something I don't feel?
Can I make it another day, will I survive the unreal?
Please will somebody help me see the good in the diseased.

 All on my own, I am so selfish; I am engulfed in my own misfortune

Never intact with what you are enduring, never caring, never feeling
Focusing on my tribulations, missing out on what life is giving
That is the path on which I am always living

I beg for forgiveness, all I feel is regret, my heart, mind and soul are set

I will not rest till I have redemption for my transgressions

This is my request for acceptance and vindication

Please accept my plea for salvation

THAT Girl

You probably do not remember me. On second thought, you probably remember one thing about me. Or more correctly, one thing that you think you knew about me.

Yes, I am THAT girl. Oh, now you remember me? That’s it! I’m the one what sat at the back of the class, row three. I drew those pictures – the ones that you tore up because you thought they weren’t good enough. I spent hours, put in effort into those drawings, only to have you rip them up. I cried that day. No, that doesn’t mean that I am weak. But yes, I cried – all day.

Yes, I see it in your eyes. You remember me now. Yes! The one who wrote those poems that you thought were “too depressing”. You tore one of those up too. I spent my afternoon fixing it. I picked up each and every piece that you threw to the ground, and taped them back together. You thought it would no longer serve me a purpose, but you were wrong.

It was a song, you know - about love, about peace, about happiness – and when you tore that sheet of paper up, in a way, I guess you tore me a bit. You see, those words on the page were not a love story, they were a dream. It’s not a secret that I didn’t have the popularity or the guy. It’s not a secret that I wasn’t happy either. I guess the worst part is that the whole school knew my pain, and yet you found joy in bringing me more. Naturally, they stood by and watched as I was humiliated, again and again.

I guess now it doesn’t matter. None of it matters anymore. After I stuck those pieces of paper back together, I put music to the lyrics. Nobody ever heard that song - Nobody, except for me. I guess if the truth be told, that’s the only person it was ever really intended for.

Don’t you do that! Do not start crying. I will not sympathise with you. I will not comfort you. I’m not doing it out of spite – you taught me a valuable lesson that I must only look within myself to find happiness. You taught me to stop the tears myself and I intend to now teach you that same lesson. It will benefit you, I promise.

You know, I even remember what day it was, the day when you told me that I would fail. It was a Wednesday when you told me that I would always be “lesser”, that I could never be anything worthwhile or of importance. I guess you were right. I’m not a doctor, therefore I don’t save lives. I’m not an artist, therefore I don’t bring colour into people’s world. I do not entertain people; I am not an idol for anyone. But no, sweetheart, that does not mean that I have failed. You may not see it, but I do. I see the sunlight when I open my eyes. I see the blue skies and the green grass. I hear the birds and the dogs in the park across the road from my house.

I’m not perfect, I’m not whole, but I am happy.

Crazy Mixed Up Kids

Crazy, crazy mixed up kids

Don’t have a clue what’s really happening

They shout “Hey” and a little bit more

She goes cryin’ down to the shore

 

He goes, he goes to her side

Says that he’ll never, never lie
Next day she sees what’s really happening
And she goes home and cries

Everything, everyday, catches up

She’ll never think that she’s good enough
And she goes running to the shore
And she cries, she cries a little more

Bang! Bang! Bang! And the birdies sing

Her memories will always be
On the, on the, on the shore
Where he promised, he promised not to lie

And now she’s holding back her tears

Looking down at all her fears
Crying, crying, crying asking why

Now the crazy, crazy mixed up kids
Have a bit of clue what’s really happening
They go to the little grey grave
And they go crying to the shore

Her memories will always last

They’ll remember what they did in the past

They’ll make sure that her memory lasts

They feel guilt for what they did in the past.

Catfish

A fish with whiskers, how very strange

That jumped out of its pond one day

To capture a once broken doll

But its love may soon take its toll

A fish that whispers soft and sweetly
Always does things to make her weepy
Then one day he pops the question
“Will you come down to the pond with me?”

Hand in hand, they go down slowly

He promises that she’ll never be lonely
But when the clown rips off his mask
She realises it’s too late to break his grasp

Air! Air! She begs for air

She cannot breathe in his lair

Now she realises that the clown

Only wanted her to drown.

I Know a Boy

I know a boy who is so beautiful it’s unreal. Everything about him makes me fall in love with him – over and over and over again. I know this is going to sound weird, but I think it’s all his imperfections that make me like him: his head is too small for his body, his mouth is too big, his lips are too red and his haircut is all wrong when he wears it that one way.  These are the things that I like most about him. Oh, and his dancing... do not get me started on the dancing.

Even if he can’t dance – like at all, which is fine because I can’t either – I could think of no better place than in his strong arms, rocking away like a baby being put to sleep by its mother. Surprisingly enough, it happens often: one minute, we’re on the couch, listening to music on my phone. Then a song that he likes will come on and the familiar call for me to turn it up, before I am pulled to my feet and into his waiting arms.

Speaking of waiting, that’s all I ever do. I wait for him to notice me, to realise that I’m right in front of his face. But can best friends really do that or is it only something saved for movies and TV shows? Maybe it’s better if he never knows. Maybe, if he never knows that the boy I complain about late at night is actually him, then I’ll avoid the pain of rejection and the heartbreak of losing my best friend.

I know a boy who is so beautiful, it’s unreal. The question is, does he really know me?