The Old Indian

His eye
His sad, sad right
eye.  The left,
he lost in the war-
fighting for his people.
It was a long, long time
ago.  He was younger
then, and believed
in everything.

Now there is nothing left
to fight for, and he's not even sure
that he was right.

The wooden beam of his home
            (the tree he axed and heaved and hewed
            with his two strong hands)
Now holds him up.

He ponders the past, those days of conviction,
        when the blood of his veins raged for revenge.

Now he hopes simply to live another day.

One eye missing
One button missing
One thumb missing

He's lost so many things, but gained others --
      wrinkles,
                         scars,
                                        gray hairs.

It's so difficult to smile.

Rambling Autobiography

I was born in the dead cold of December in 2002. I belived (and still do) that I was a superhero. I love my brother. It's difficult to think about the past, not because of how dejected it was, just because I don't remember. My parents, when they were together, were cute and didn't fight a whole lot. I skipped pain and sorrow. I can chose to let something itch at my mind. I lie sometimes. I'm very thankful. I want my mother to live till she's sixty. One time, when I was in the 4th grade, I split my head open. Two years and more memories later I did it again, not intentionally of course. I worry about my heart breaking. I wouldn't say things are well at home. My step-dad is a broken person who has no will to fix himself. He yells more often than he loves. My dad has married a woman whom has drastically changed from the person he knew twenty years ago. I think he knows it. We get along way better when she isn't there. I pray for him to find an end to his farce love. I pray for my mother as well, I pray so she finds refuge for her damaged heart. I feel that if I treat people better than what I have whitenesed, they will be above that low since of cruelty and find elation. I test myself often, and often test myself.