by Michael Plante

I was deemed defiant as a child,
which translates to, “he does get along with others”.
Possible autism, poor motor control and a speech impediment.
Some things can be corrected, others cannot.

After the source of the fire was revealed,
after the court hearing,
after the many tests and doctors,
they said, “he emotionally upset with his parents’ separation”

Give me a paint brush and I’m happy,
send me home and I’m terrified.
The path through the woods isn’t scary,
what hides in the woods is.
My garden of Eden,
sustained with violence and blood;
I’m happy to eat that apple
and get the hell out of there.

He doesn’t focus in class and has a hard time with the lesson.
He daydreams too much and is confrontational.
He’s failed three times and must move on.
His time here has ended.

If you’re wondering what the wolf
from Lil’ Red Riding hood looks like
call a cop.
If you have a wallet they’re deceptive.
If your pockets are empty they’ll beat you to death.
“Stay away from that door”, people said, “there’s nothing good inside”.

I used to throw rocks through the stained-glass windows of the church.
The teachers and doctors missed the term “intuitive”;
I never got caught so there is a God after-all.
Sometimes I wonder what happened to those stones?
I’d like to believe they made a rock garden out of them.

I was prepared for jail
by an uncle with good intentions.
Ripened by the age of 10.
The officer at the local station
slammed the barred door shut.
“This is what jail looks like from the inside”, he said.
“No”, I replied,
“this is what the world looks like from the outside”.

I smoked my first cigarette down by the creek,
pondering like any good philosopher.
In my way nothing could touch me;
iron bars and concrete
handcuffs and court dates were all relevant to my life.
Acceptance and accountability taught me more than any public-school teacher could.
Life took its best shot and I’m still standing.

Fritter not, for it holds no substance;
yet booze and cocaine do.
A 2-4 in the fridge and a line on the table;
a warrior’s reward for a long night’s journey.
A death on the street;
a former wife
and crystallized eyes,
people still think I’m confrontational.

Death in the vein,
re-birth at dawn.
I lit a match and burned down my life.
Nobody came to watch the fire.
Not that I cared;
it was never about you
or God, or his house.|
The child who cleaned up the blood
was the same child who bled.
The child who never learned mercy
is the same child who never pleads forgiveness.

The best day of my life,
was the day I burned down
the entire world.

All compositions that appear on The Poet’s House are composed by Michael Plante and are subject to copyright.

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