Just Go With It: The mind of an 18 year old kid

Who are you?by Connor Reilly

Know yourself for who you areKnow yourself for who you have becomeKnow yourself for who you want to beKnow yourself for who you were

Our roots are where we startedThe place where we belongThe iron that helped form usWho we really are

Family may have raised me But friends are what made meLoyalty, love, toughness, and hope run deep throughout my bloodLife lessons that I carry forever

You never have friends like the one’s when you’re youngLose touch with them and lose touch with realityThey laugh you through the good, and cry you through the badThe closest thing to normal I may ever know

So who I am is what I wasSo who I have become is what I’m notSo who I want to be is simply not meSo who I was is where I want to be

He Won’t CryYou see the pain that lies in his eyes,But, look, his eyes are dry,He won't cry.No, He won't cry.

Fire. I take a moment to write for you,Promising every syllable is true.A great bloody war rages inside,Ten thousand times, it seems, I have died.The blood and gore runs on and on.Like a feelingless river, my emotions are gone.I live in a deserted faraway place,One without trees, mountains, or lakes.A sea of ice, a wasteland of snow,The subzero climate chills to the bone.The one last thing I want to know:Why did you have to let me go?

The only thing here is a monsoon of ice,No one else here who shares my plight.No animal, no plant, no time and no trace,Of anything in front of my face.I'm blind to the world as the world is blind to me,There's nothing that lives as far as I can see.There is one thing that rings quite true:The pain runs through, the pain runs through.A funny thing, this newly gained part,The pain has become so cold and sharp.If one message I could relate:Why could you not, with me, stay?

The only thing of which I can be sure,This cage I'm in with no windows or doors.It's a flaming mass of barbed woven steel,Opening my skin, not letting it heal.The flame makes my bloody sores fester,But the heat warms me, makes me feel better.The choice I have made causes me grief,But now I know my love will never leave.This torturous prison, this harboring cage,Is a sanctuary in which I became afraid.What if my world decided to flee:Why did you have to abandon me?

The metal rips open and drops me now,I fall a thousand miles before I hit the ground.The earthshattering impact that follows the drop,Shakes me, makes me, forces me to stop.

“Colors of Life”All we know in life, all we share with each otherAll we know in life has a definite color

A lark springs up out of the blue,Water so deep, so in love with you.And flies through the air, so high so free;Just promise one thing: never leave me.

As the sun lies low, It casts an orange glow.The end of our year, Without you, dear.And it hangs in the skyAs I wish to die.

Your purple dress became a wrinkled messAs I watched you hastily, swiftly undress.Our souls ignited, our fires burned;After all this time, it was you I had earned.

The red beast inside me tears us apart.It runs rampant through my mind, rules my heart.My blood boils over as I see you with him-As I yell at you, my spirit grows dim.“You’re crazy, you’re crazy he’s just a friend!”“I know he’s you lover, don’t pretend!”You pack your bags, you go away. Oh how I wish you’d stay.That night my blood splattered, spurted and sprayed.

We lay on this hill under a white sky;Your love is eternal, you ad I.The purity of you, of me, of us, We never fight I will never fuss.You are all I need, all I want in life:If I am with you, I will n’er know strife.

The grass on this hill is forever green;A metaphor for our love? On that I am keen.The grass sways lazily as the wind dances dizzily by.I never though you would make me cry,But one day I see a flower turn brown.The site of death slaps upon me a frown.Every day more death, a steady decline,Nothing will be okay, nothing will be fine.

Daddy’s WillBy Ryan Pluck

Rain always reminded me of God, especially when I was driving to St. Thomas Hospital. Rain always seemed to make me think. Rain always gave me such a calm feeling perfect for reflecting on my beliefs, despite what others think of it. Everybody tells me rain is appropriate for mourning and makes them feel unhappy. I never felt that way. Rain is appropriate for reflecting on your beliefs, something I found myself doing more frequently than I did before Grace left. It rained that day. I drove to St. Thomas Hospital in silence. I never listened to the radio while it rained. To me music always seemed to taint the rain. St. Thomas Hospital was a small two story building made of brick. Not many people used this hospital since there was a much nicer one nearby. I had been here so many times I felt as if it was a second home.I parked near the entrance. Lyrica was here today. She always made things a bit brighter. I left my car and traveled to the entrance. The automatic doors opened to let me in. The interior of the building was entirely white. To the left of the entrance was a small waiting room with a few chairs spread along the walls. It was empty. It usually was. To the right was the only set of stairs in the building and a reception desk. Lyrica sat behind it typing into a computer. Lyrica was my closest friend. Her long black hair hung down behind her back. Her green eyes were trained on the computer screen. She had a rather large forehead, which I often joked with her about. But lately I have not felt any need to joke around. She noticed, of course, but she never addressed it to me. I walked over to the desk. “Is there anybody here today?” I asked. Lyrica looked up from the computer. She smiled, but it was a sad smile. “It’s nice to see you,” she said. “I was wondering when you’d come back.” “How long has it been since I last came to visit?” I asked. “Three weeks,” she answered. “Maybe four.” I looked down at my feet. I remembered how happy Lyrica used to be when I visited the hospital, and how happy I would be to see her. Lately neither of us were happy. “Are there any patients I could see?” I asked. That was why I always visited. That was what Grace wanted me to do after she left. She wanted me to visit this hospital and visit any patient I could just to lift their spirits. “Being ill does not mean being unhappy,” she always said. Lyrica made a slight nod. “We only have one patient today,” she said. “It’s a seven year old boy. His name is Michael and he’s here because he needs a kidney transplant. He might not live through the surgery.” “Are his parents here?” I asked. If they were not, I had more of a reason to visit the boy. “No,” Lyrica replied. “His mother can’t afford to miss work to visit him and his father passed away when he was a baby.” “What room?” I asked. Lyrica became uneasy. She tapped her fingers against the desk as if she was try-ing to find the right words to say next. “Seven,” she said quietly. I tried not to show my surprise. Seven. That was once the room Grace stayed in. It was just before she left. “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll see if I can cheer him up.” I walked away from the desk and down a single hallway. Wooden doors lined the left and right. I reached room eleven and knocked. “Come in,” I could faintly hear the voice of a young boy. I entered the room to find a boy in the bed with a book in his hands. The boy had messy

Just Go With It: The mind of an 18 year old kid

Who are you?by Connor Reilly

Know yourself for who you areKnow yourself for who you have becomeKnow yourself for who you want to beKnow yourself for who you were

Our roots are where we startedThe place where we belongThe iron that helped form usWho we really are

Family may have raised me But friends are what made meLoyalty, love, toughness, and hope run deep throughout my bloodLife lessons that I carry forever

You never have friends like the one’s when you’re youngLose touch with them and lose touch with realityThey laugh you through the good, and cry you through the badThe closest thing to normal I may ever know

So who I am is what I wasSo who I have become is what I’m notSo who I want to be is simply not meSo who I was is where I want to be

Relieve The PainDylan OzunaTeenage years are kind of rough,I sure am not too big but I am tough.You taught me to defend what's rightAnd never back down from a fight.So I learned the hard way to stand,Even in the pouring rain.I look when I have a bump and bruise,But you’re not here to relieve the pain.

Jon McCarry

More than just the skies cry tonightMore than just the animal’s plight Tonight there should be no more fight in theeFor tonight there is no more rightFeelings are wrought, far from goneEmotions are sought, till dawn More than just the skies cry tonightMore than just the birds fly towards light More than just the creatures seek shelterBecause tonight there is no swelter For tonight felt her, I will not Search, Search, Search… I have sought Lurch, lurch, lurch… release my thought!More than just the skies cry tonightOh wait, I hear a falter…No wait… it’s not her It never was herIt never will be nor wereThen forever I tear Till forever I hear…

For more than just the skies cry tonight

Jon McCarry

Fear

Fear is evident all aroundThe scary thing is it can’t seem to be foundIf I am rejected suddenly the fear startsIs this a fear of opening our hearts?Fear of a new dayFear of no same old “Goodnight:)”Well what if you have nothing to say?Can you promise me tomorrow will be all right?I don’t know about tomorrow but I do know about todayToday fear has beaten us both and now I fear this is going to stayLiving in fear is not smartOur fear of fear will tear us apart

Soft WindsAs soft winds sweep away the daysHe looks back on life through a haze.Remember playgrounds, parks and friends,With a childlike gaze that never ends.The laughter in a game of pass,Those memories shall never pass.The innocence of the youthful soul,To Mom's surprise, he scored that goal.But now she’s gone, the happiness over,You can feel the chill coming off of his shoulder.He is still loved, and that will always remain,But it’s hard to still feel it, with the thought that he’s changed.

The Sound of the Rain I woke up to the sound of the rain on the window from a sun shower that seemed to be lasting for hours. I rolled over and there she was. I don’t know how she got there and I still didn’t know her name. She had make-up on in the style of a blue star on the side of her face near her temple. For that reason I decided to call her blue star. She was gorgeous. She had the most amazing curves that complimented her face perfectly. She had hazel eyes, black hair, and perfect looking lips with the lip gloss still shining. She had both ears pierced and I could’ve sworn she was wearing glasses last night. “Ahhh”, I said when I spotted the glasses on my night table. I was pretty sure she was naked because I definitely was. I checked and seen her body radi-ate as the light peeked through the shades of the bedroom. There was nothing but silence and the occasional sound of Star making slight movements in her sleep. I couldn’t quite grasp the memory of last night. I know I had a few drinks and then I was on my way to drop her off after the party. After that was a blur. I think we may have left a little early actually. She reminded me of someone I knew a while ago. I was in love with this girl. She used to be my girlfriend. Her name was Alexandra, and we lasted a few years but she suddenly broke up with me during my sophomore year of college. We haven’t spoken since. Star was so familiar though and I just could not remember. All of a sudden the memory came back. After the party I was walking Star home but she said she wanted to just crash at my place. She said she didn’t feel like hearing her roommates complain about her coming home so late. We sat on the sofa in silence for what seemed like half an hour. Suddenly she began to ask me about my family and college, and it seemed as though she knew me. Then out of nowhere she kissed me. Our lips met again and again as she walked me upstairs. She shut the door and locked it. She undressed and began to undress me. She lay on the bed and proceeded to pull me on top of her. I don’t really remember what happened in between but it lasted for about an hour and a half. Next thing I knew, she was asleep in my arms. I laid her next to me and I started thinking about what had happened and how even making love had seemed familiar. I fell asleep in the process.Now I’m just laying here and thinking about how I know this woman. I rolled over to take another look at her. The rain was coming down a little harder but I could still see the little bit of sunshine peeking through my window. I couldn’t get her out of my head. She rolled over and kissed me. I didn’t say a word. She pulled me closer and got comfortable again. That’s when she said it. I heard those words and it all came back. I knew that I knew her. She said, “I told you I would end up in your arms again”.

Time to get away one last timeMatthew B. Killian Sam Bloom recalls clearly when he decided he had had enough of the simple life that was lead on and encouraged by the people around him. It was a prickly hot morning in ladder August and the piercing sound of the whistle being blown was so relieving to him. He then quickly scampered toward the water until his head got airy, legs shut down, and he crumbled to the ground. He stuck his arms out and caught himself, on all fours he began to spurt out vomit uncontrollably until his stomach turned dry. Next he glanced up and found know one looking his way. His teammates were guzzling down all the water they could get their hand on while all-star, all-everything, captain quarterback Paul Quinn was talking to the head coach from state college. Of course every single coach on the team lingered around the conversation watching every move by the man in the burnt orange cap. It was now the end of football training camp of Sam’s senior year at Penfield High School and he was not going to see the field or stamp any notable impression on the people around him in the suburban part of Corpus Christi, Texas. The thought that he would be these coaches practice dummy all season would have made him cough up some more vomit if there was anything left in his stomach. He then pushed down on the grainy dirt field until he was standing erect; he slowly staggered over to the water. Next he swished some water around his mouth and spit out the sour, acidic burning taste from the vomit. He then crept away and retired from his football career as tranquil as he was while playing the sport. A lot has changed for Sam since the last time he wore the shiny silver helmet with bold black P’s on each side. He now had no respect for the coaches who authorized him that helmet to him along with a lot of his superiors that he thought put on an act. Sinking into the worn vinyl cushioned seat he gazed down at the top of a fluffy nebulous cloud. The cloud reminded Sam of a stained glass window in the lobby of the nurse’s office at St. Thomas grade school which had clouds on it. He remembers spending hours throughout grade school exam-ining the large slick looking picture while waiting for his mom to pick him up early. All of these times he could have stayed in school and most of the time he was not ill at all but just wanted to leave to get away from things. Whether it were embarrassing himself in front of the guys, the girls giggling at him or anything else that would make him the slightest bit uncomfortable he had to get away which meant looking at this stained glass. Sam has no problem with just picking up and leaving if the situation calls for it which is why after staring out of a win-dow at clouds for an hour he finally realized that this is the first airplane he has ever been on. Being on a plane for the first time did not faze him because to Sam this was simply just another time he was getting away, just to New York City this time. He then began thinking more about times in grade school and started to believe that his sexual feelings began because the girls around him when he was younger never gave him a chance. Never did one of them like him nor have a crush on him, they liked the other boys around him which caused Sam to envy and ultimately like the other guys. For the rest of the flight he convinced himself that his mild homosexu-ality was caused by the girls around him growing up, not letting him get a chance to get close with any of them. These homosexual feelings would never fly with the people in Sam’s neighborhood if they were to find out. The plane started slowly sinking toward the ground until it rumbled into the airport. Sam sprung out of his seat into the aisle, snatched his luggage and began to follow the people around him into the airport. He stood amazed at all the different people whizzing around him to do their own things while he had not one clue what he himself should do. He decided to follow signs leading him to a travel agency desk. The proper looking woman with puffy tired looking eyes working advises him to head toward Time Square to find hotel and main attrac-tions. With no hesitation Sam quickly threw his compact pouch of luggage with a strap on his shoulder, checked his denim pockets for his 451 dollars spending money along with his return flight ticket for the next night and tracked down a cab to Time Square. It was about 7:45 at night which meant Sam had some time to kill. He finally arrives in the big city of New York and quickly joins one of the moving mountains of human mass walk-ing the streets observing the glowing buildings he is surrounded by. While walking Sam sees a copper building that reached about half way up the sides of the chrome buildings next to it. The building had orange signs on the outside with the Nike swoosh located somewhere on everyone. Before Sam even entered the store he thought of Penfield High’s quarterback Paul Quinn who wore pearly white Nike cleats while he played. He then thought of the jock football players he hung with that gave Sam a hard time in school now that he was not on their football team anymore. As Sam would wonder through the halls these jocks would post up on their lockers with their prissy girlfriends and bark “loser” and “bitch” at him as the girls would giggle. He decided he would like to go in the Nike store and look at the clothing and sneaker items on display. He was in the football section of the store with a father with his young son, the son then scampered away from his dad until the father had to chase him into another part of the store. The small child’s actions made Sam think about the August day when he him-self scampered away from football which was his father’s passion. A couple days later Sam finally told his fa-

The CircleBy Daniel Spinelli ‘14

I wake, I eat, I work. I sleep, I dream, I live. And the circle opens up again.I lay for a long time; lay without thinking. Thinking is hard for me now, and bores me to no end. Beyond my fragile fingertips stand my family and a few select friends. They bring flowers, chocolates, cards…to be hon-est, all I want are the chocolates, yet obviously I cannot eat them. A pretty horrible gift it must be to bring some temptable foods for a person who has been sucking out of a tube for three weeks. Such is no significant matter. I want everyone to go away. My nurse is pretty attractive—definitely a plus. I think young people assume that when you grow older, all sexual thoughts go away. I don’t think attraction ever goes away. It must be a gift from God, if there is one. There probably is…I mean definitely; if not—what have I to hold on to? Heaven is a place I imagine, but don’t really believe in. If it exists though-I mean-I would hope they would let me in. To be honest, I can’t call myself a bad person. Teaching English and raising two girls doesn’t merit a medal, but it should lead to a granted pas-sage into the comfortable netherworld. Thoughts constantly rush into my head and it bothers me, because I just want to sleep forever. When you can’t really move, emotions are just an added bother, especially when you’re being analyzed by a horde of well-wishers. They feel happy with themselves for coming; missing work or school just to see me finally kick the bucket. The general theory is that the old man holds on until his family finally arrives to see him off. Grandmom waited until little Johnny could fly up from Florida, then she croaked. I actually laughed at this; first chuckle I had in a while. C’mon, I have been begging to get out of here, meet some cosmic designer on the other side. Who cares if my little grandchildren have to see my frail body stiffen up into a deathsnare? I think when you get to my age, it’s time to be a little selfish and worry about yourself. And really, no one is worth waiting for when I can choose between an undecided-upon afterlife or eternally pissing myself to sleep in this hospital bed. What a crime—if only those American soldiers overseas could figure how to do that forcibly to someone—we wouldn’t even need Guantanamo, ha! Imagine that, terrorists who can’t control their bowels! Wow, I am getting crazy here. They sure as heck wouldn’t be bombing anything anytime soon. I feel like a ragged diaper here. The pretty nurse feeds me a little before I drift off. It’s still the highlight of these days, even if I can’t taste whatever mush she’s putting inside me. It doesn’t make too much of a difference to me anymore. Funny, I was a stickler about my weight back in the day, trying any of those phony diet pills they came out with. I still re-member those black-and-white commercials…It is sure to cut your body fat by at least 60%! I begged my father to buy those crackpot pills. He was a softie though and relented. Ah, Dad! He really was a good man—worked hard and never asked for more than he earned. He loved my mom too, even looking beyond her craziness. I sure as heck couldn’t. Well, he did give in eventually and they divorced. I still regret flipping at him for that. His new wife didn’t deserve that from me either. She was a nice girl, just out of grad school. I think she’s here now, in the hospital room. But the pills didn’t work though, obviously, yet I just kept trying more. I maintained a little body fat up into my sixties, before pretty much letting myself go. Looking at my skinny body now, I feel ashamed for those years. God knows, if the Hindus were right, I could get reincarnated into a pig or some other dastardly thing. I suppose there is nothing to be afraid of now. It’s not like I killed someone or stole a lot of money. Be-ing an Italian, my faith guilted me pretty badly (blame my Mother for that one). I blindly believed in all Catho-lic doctrine up until about twenty years ago. I was one of the lost souls even before that scandal hit Boston a de-cade ago. The major things bothered me: the Resurrection, Jesus dying for our sins…I never really understood it but just accepted it. I guess this is what’s scaring me now. Will I see God with a big “I told you so” sign? Pretty good racket I would say, to convince millions of people of an afterlife, keeping them in line and under the Church’s umbrella. To be honest though, I can’t criticize a doctrine full of “good works” and “love of neighbor” though. I guess it just didn’t work out for me. Looking back at my little throng of visitors, I see another face from long ago, my old colleague, Anna-beth Schwartz. We both worked at the old public school down the road there, and were friends. I worked in the English department-you see-and she was a History teacher. We shared the same lunch though and would always talk. Her knowledge of old Italian writers, like Dante and Machiavelli always enlightened me, and first attracted me to her. Ha, unfortunately she was my first “transgression” per say. Now, when was this-eh-about twenty years ago? Yes, so my wife Marie was out on business for a weekend and I ate dinner with Annabeth, then she came home with me. She was a very eloquent woman, quick with words but always careful with her mouth. Her beauty was unmistakable too. I still think Marie found out but she never muttered a word about it. For me, I simply returned to my work. Funny, I actually got ravaged by guilt one night a couple years ago. I journeyed off to Confession that weekend and waited. There was a good-numbered line surprisingly, and I never made it up. I was thinking-you know-that these priests who we tell our sins too, like what exact merit do they have to hear our dirty secrets? If I remember my good Catholic grade school, it’s actually God who forgives the sins, using the priests as like a conduit, right? Then why can’t we just to confess to God, reiterating my point “if there is one.” Priests simply can’t relate to the sins of a middle-aged man. They are not with a partner nor have they had to raise children. Ugh, I hate my continued skepticism when the clock slowly is ticking down. It really is unavoidable though, you know? Okay, so my anxiety is growing beyond me now. The night gets darker and my guests thankfully begin to depart. I just want to sleep—why can’t I sleep? My mind seems to constantly be going through a horrific ex-amination of conscience. I see my sins flash before me like roadblocks, never moving and staring me in the face like fire. Was it so bad? One night with Annabeth, or-okay I forgot to mention this-one day I had this student who I really liked…My heart feels like it is burning and the urge to confess grows ever greater. Why must I feel this guilt? I am a good person, one of respect. I was Teacher of the Year in 1999. Well I can just count the num-ber of kids who keep in contact with me…who have nice jobs and always thank me…and-why? Must I think of Annabeth or pretty little Kelly Thompson so many years ago? Now she was a good writer. Did I really help her or just use her skill, her passion to satisfy myself? I feel myself getting colder and a wind keeps coming in. Memories replace the metallic words of past sins. I see myself telling my father in his new house how I will never be like him. I see myself in a closed room telling my student that I love her. I see a blank document, staring at me as my writer’s block reaches its critical point. I want to explode. As the nurse approaches the next morning, I grunt and fight, “aaH!” Just let me die! I don’t want to be here anymore. I hope there is a cosmic designer, and I hope He is merciful. Oh God, just please release me from this inescapable prison of torture. Why can’t the good in my life shine through? I mean there has to be some good-you know? What, I didn’t kill anyone or steal or cheat or lie! Well, I did lie to Marie about-you know-but…ahh! I feel like this is hell and I am already dead. What use is fighting now, what use is this circle of life given to us, what use are broken promises made long ago that amounted to this: a pile of dust. From dust ye shall come and into dust again ye shall be. Isn’t that how the saying goes? What purpose did I have? Why was I here? Oh Jesus, just release me…The human condition is one of repetition of mistakes, and over-glorification of successes. Over the course of a human life, a sense of worthlessness can occur during which the being feels restless and hopeless. The ab-sence of an other-worldy deity is a thought taken up by much of the intelligent population, but sacrificed as they writhe on their death beds. Stupid imaginations they hold during a lifetime which ends with inevitable dust.Life was such a wheel that no man could stand upon it for long. And it always, at the end, came round to the same place again. --Stephen King