The Best Days of My Life

Chimera Poetry

The parties I wasn’t invited to,

the boy who kissed me and then laughed about it to his friends,

the time my period arrived early and stained my jeans in school,

the jokes I never understood,

the cool I never felt,

the stumbling fumbling I always managed in gym.

And forty years later

my cheeks still flood with color

and my stomach still remembers ~

these were supposed to be the best days of my life…

All I could see was an endless track of no where to hide

no place to turn

and the best advice my mother naively offered was, “Smile and be friendly…”

You can’t be invisible and smile.

Impossible to be friendly while the vicious fledglings crowd around you

jeering and pointing at the outfit you briefly 


 felt pretty in.

When the only thing faster than their fists were their tongues

and the shame of just…

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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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