Poems by L. Murphy

20 DAYS +

OK, I got 20 days plus clean from the toxic chemicals I’d sniffed in my nose or smoked in a glass pipe knowing that it was wrong.

I knew it was wrong but I wanted to be somewhere else at that moment in time.

What was I going through at that time? Who knows? Who cares? That was then, this is now. I’ve moved on.

20 days plus clean from the different liquids of alcohol. Didn’t care what brand it was, it just had to be wet and strong at that time in life of partying— I was invincible, stronger, faster than when I was sober. Then the attitude came—I was meaner, disrespectful to whoever was in my presence, slurring words, making no sense at all. I was a silly mess, but that was then, this is now. I’ve moved on. 20 days plus clean but am I really clean-minded? Really, no I am not. I’m scared as hell. ’Cause I’m afraid of back-stepping into what I was back then— an active addict. Physically, I’m fine. Mentally, my mind is crying out for help.

It’s going to take some time, but I’m willing to take the risk. So therefore, I’m trying to move on. And when I get there, you see, who knows? Who cares?

L. Murphy

A VIRGIN NO MORE AT THE AGE OF NINE

A cool summer day, the wind blowing calmly. Birds being birds, enjoying the moment. New kid on the block— didn’t know anybody, kept to myself. Everyone in their own clique. I didn’t fit in. But then I met a friend— a girl, who I thought was a boy— did everything like one: played sports, climbed trees, kicked ass if need be. That wasn’t me. I was still trying to find myself. Then someone yelled out, “Let’s play cowboys and Indians.” No response. See, I loved cowboys and Indians. I loved classic movies, Westerns, you know, John Wayne Clint Eastwood— the best. And no one wanted to play. So I said, “I’ll play!” Everyone looked at me as if I was crazy. But six neighborhood guys didn’t think so. “Let’s play,” one responded. So we all went behind a building surrounded by trees as tall as 4-story buildings— secluded, private. “What to do?” I said. “Well,” one of them said, “We are the Indians.” I said, “What am I?” Another one said, “You are the cowgirl.” Before I knew it, I was bent over a tree trunk tied up, mouth gagged, pants down to my knees scared of what might happen next. Pain from the rear. Each had a turn making their way with me, a little boy at the age of nine. Their ages ranging from 14 to 18. Tears falling. Yelling. But no one hears my cry. 45 minutes to an hour, back and forth. Finally the pain, torture, assault had stopped. I was left there in agony, bleeding, wet from sweat and urine on me. What did I do to deserve this? Was I being punished by God for being this way— meaning gay? At first I wanted to fit in with the crowd, not have a crowd of guys raping me for pleasure. But now I’m grown, feeling no hatred toward those who raped me— they have to live with that. I’ve moved on with the help of counseling. I still have dreams of the past. But it’s the past. That’s it. You live and learn. And I’ve learned.

L. Murphy

THE BEGINNING, THE END TO A BEGINNING

Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here to give praise to this day. Let us remember those who are gone but not forgotten. When you leave this here place remember him, remember her, remember my face. Let’s pause for a moment. 10 seconds of silence for a loved one, a friend we miss very much, not forgetting them at all. Some short, some tall, some light, some dark—who cares what color? We all share something together, the same blood color, you see, so don’t weep for them, they are in no more pain. But rejoice and yell out their name.... everyone together.

L. Murphy