28. Friday.

                                    

                                          
                   
                          
2016/03/18 Friday 
                          
Today, I woke up and I felt better. I still felt empty and kind of sad and I still felt like I should scream until my voice was completely hoarse, but I felt overall better. Getting out of bed was easier, especially because I did it all by myself. 
                          
I wondered whether it was because, subconsciously, I knew Mr Bowie was going to do Literature with me today. Which meant that we got to analyse poetry: this time, for marks instead of as entertainment. 
                          
I'm not that big a fan of poetry but, if it was between poetry and chemistry: I'd pick poetry every time. Mostly because I could find myself in most poems, better yet, I could find Pete in them. I could find us both in them sometimes. 
                          
Whether it was (cliché I know) in a love poem by Shakespeare or whether it was (strangely enough) something completely abstract. There were a couple of poems that spoke about roads and things that I could often see us in. 
                          
I didn't voice this to Mr Bowie but I'd almost screwed up once before, when I used 2 men as examples to try and explain a poem. He'd asked about it like it was strange but I only brushed it off: pretended that it was a common mistake on my part.  
                          
Group Therapy was boring and the Lady at the Head of the Invisible Table gave me grace because she skipped right over me when the time came to introduce ourselves. I was glad that I didn't have to say or do anything at all. I could stare at the floor and think about Pete. 
                          
I wish I could paint – so that I could paint you a picture of him. So that I could highlight all the parts of him that I love. And I wish that I could draw so that I could draw every one of his features in charcoal to emphasize the contrast between the rings under his eyes and his pale skin. 
                          
And I wish that I could sing: so that I could sing him a million songs about how beautiful he is. And I wish that I could write books like John Green so that I could write about how amazingly smart and funny he really is and I wish that I could write poetry as beautifully as Shakespeare so that I could tell him just how much I love him. 
                          
I thought back to the Group Therapy Poem... And I tried to analyse it again as much as I could.
                          
We are talking about love
 (not daring use that word)
                          
They're in group therapy, right? So they've probably all been abused or hurt or gone something really tragic. We also can't study the poem in isolation... He starts talking about the children around him. They really probably didn't understand their feelings, probably couldn't label them with huge words like LOVE. 
                          
As they sat about me
 In a circle. 
 The boys and the girls. 
 Each with a paper puppet in one hand. 
                          
Each of the children is holding a paper puppet but we can't tell whether they made these themselves or not. Or whether they're anything more than a couple of white paper bags. 
                          
He said- 
                          
It doesn't indicate who "he" is. But I'm guessing it's one of the boys in the circle of therapy kids. Obviously not the therapist, seeing as he writes in first person. 
                          
'Mine's an old man,
 He's so very hungry
 And so very much alone.'
                          
The boy is analysing his own puppet. It's safe to assume now that they made the puppets themselves to see how they really interpret themselves. He sees himself as older, like he's been forced to grow up faster than everyone else his age. Just like Pete... dealing with a disease has made him into someone twice his actual age. 
                          
He's sacrificing himself to help Cherry indirectly and he's not supposed to do that – that's a parent's job and Pete isn't old enough to be doing that because it's not his job. 
                          
And she in the softest voice –
                          
Now it's safe to assume that 'she' is another child in the group therapy session. It says she has the softest voice and I don't know if it would be over-analysing or not, but I think that says something about her soft and gentle personality. 
                          
'My puppet is ugly
 Everyone hates her.'
                          
That's what she thinks about herself. She thinks that she's ugly and that everybody hates her. Which points to, of course, negligence or maybe physical abuse. Whatever the case, here's my theory:
                          
Someone, at some point in her life, told her that she was good. And everything was good. And the world was just absolutely brilliant. My guess is someone close to her (who she idolized or looked up to) told her that something was bad. 
                          
And now she's going to spend the rest of her life trying so hard to be good again – even if she knows that it's impossible. 
                          
I searched for words
 To form a bridge 
 Between them. 
                          
"I" refers to the therapist, remember, who wrote this in first person. He doesn't know what to say and even in his line of work, in his profession, he can't possibly find a way to make it better. He simply can't say anything at all. 
                          
The old man looked at the ugly puppet.
                          
The boy looked at the girl. 
                          
The paper head nodded gravely
 While the group waited. 
                          
The boy nodded – like he was agreeing. Or maybe like understood the situation. Like he knew how she felt and how the world made her feel. Which would point to negligence again, paired with the fact that his puppet is very, very hungry. 
                          
The group is waiting for the therapist to say something – to make it better. Everyone is waiting for him to find a way to fix it. 
                          
And I, groping in my word-world
 Waited for the right words 
 To set them free.
                          
He's waiting as well, waiting for the right words to appear, to exist or to show themselves. He's waiting for the right thing to say to make them feel better than they did. 
                          
On an impulse 
 He stretched forward
                          
The boy wasn't trying – he wasn't thinking. It was normal for him to react this way. 
                          

 And gently swept her hair
 Out of her face. 
                          
 And I like to think that this made everything a million times better than they were before. 
                          
I discussed the poem with Pete over the phone and I realized, after I told him half of the analysis, that he hadn't said a single thing in a long time. I panicked because – unlike if I was talking to anyone else – I didn't think he might've fallen asleep. I thought he might've died. 
                          
Spoiler Alert: he didn't. 
                          
When I stopped and said Pete? I heard his annoyed breathing on the other end of the line as he adjusted his position to get comfortable. He said with a rough voice, why did you stop? 
                          
I was taken aback and a little confused, quite frankly. And before I could really stop myself I snapped back at him, what? Pete laughed humourlessly on the other end of the line. Why did you stop analysing? You sound so amazing when you're passionate. 
                          
And the rest of the phone call was basically a discussion about poetry and poetry theories and, right at the end, before we could even say goodbye Pete said. You know how you compared me to the boy? Who acts so selflessly? I mumbled a quiet agreement. You remind me of the girl. And he hung up before I could ask him to elaborate. 
                          
Regardless, I hope he lives long enough for me to see him again. God. I hope I get to see him again.
                          
Mikey. 
                          
                   
                          
Because I've had a long two days which consisted of musical practice. 
                          
Vote and comment because this is actually one of my favourite poems. 
                          
And my favourite thing right now is me but I guess being the centre of all attention is great too. 
                          
Undying affections from yours truly, 
                          
Brendon.