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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required We were bloody. Bearing the weight of a gaping moon like young Titans- full of arrogant imagination. We ran, hellbent. House after house playing tricks- casting spells with veracious foolishness. That first pumpkin was my stepfather. I watched as his carved out grimace became the nothingness I was determined to fill with chaos. I screamed the lyrics to our favorite Hatebreed song down every street. Letting the Universe know that no matter how insignificant the World thought we were. We would be heard. All of us, brothers. Bound by dark matter- the silent replies to our prayers that we'd never admit to sending out; Together we didn't need Him, The Devil, or anyone else. We were fearless, because we had each other. And the might of bond, not in blood shared, but spilled as one. Parents tried to chase us. Reign us in. We laughed and taunted- swinging our pillowcases full of savory sin with a sense of joy that only a lost boy could even begin to understand. Hands covered in slime, and seed thundered together and sent out our cacophony of delight as I tipped over the HOA's Porta Potty. Red and blue lights flash. Someone has had enough. We escape into the woods. Sit on the edge of Willow Creek, and light up a bowl of dirt weed. The creek was shallow that year. But, our hearts could fill it up; All that life pulsing, racing through our ephemeral- jack'-o-lantern husks. Smoke signals went up that night. As we exhaled our silent melancholy. I think we all had some sort of hope there, in that place. That our rage would be sated. That we would be enough to keep each other safe from what we could already sense was encircling us. We never wore masks. Not until we got older, grew apart. And began to see we had to hide that primal nature inside ourselves to keep the moon from breaking our backs. Because, we don't have each other for that anymore. But, I'm pulling mine off tonight. Have a good look- The scars. The worry lines. The bloodshot eyes. That same grimace I tried to destroy- lighting up the room as if it were carved to scare you away. But I am no totem. No walking masquerade to incite any sort of terror, or joy for that matter. I’m just another pumpkin head; candle dwindling. Waiting to be smashed. -James Kelley 2018
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