I'm getting tired of everything I know and love.

Don't ask me,

Nothing's not enough.

I hate the thought of love,

I'll never do it again.

All these attempts

Just leave me broken in the end.

The sweet essence of loneliness

Seems to engulf my mind

Though it's nothing compared

To the way I used to lie.

Lie about myself

Lie straight to my face.

'Though life is just not worth it',

I say, 'I'll just be replaced'.

And these are my true feelings

Even if I'd never admit,

But the sin of lie is nothing

Compared to the crime I want to commit.

'Your face is beautiful'

'Your eyes are crystal clear'—

I wish my eyes reflected my own soul

Showed these sudden urges I call rare.

Well,

Not everything can be normal.

Things can't be the way they used to be.

'I'm sorry', I said to my heart,

'Why did you have to leave me?'

And with a simple cry,

A whimper I've never heard before,

'You're hurt is just too much'

'I should be sorry- I'd just like more.'

'More?' I asked,

I'd never thought of so.

Giving is just not my style,

Not after two years ago.

'I've brought so much sorrow,

'Too much for you to bare',

As tears run down my cheeks,

My heart seems not to care.

With a final attempt,

I grasp onto what's right,

'Will you ever forgive me?'

'I know I lost sight—'

'Sight of what, God damn it??'

My heart retorts back,

'You let your mind make decisions,’

'And love is what you lack'.

It all hits me then—

What my heart says is true.

I've never once let my heart follow what it felt,

Let alone act on what I should do.

My heart then turns around,

'If I come back, I make decisions',

This organ smirked with a sinister plan,

'You're the one that's going to listen.'

But before I can agree,

My heart leaps out of my chest.

More or less it didn't leave me,

I fell for another person I met.

A/N : What’s better than some old edgy poetry lmao

I look out to where the sea and sky collide at the horizon. It saves the guy drowning in the waves behind my eyelids. The salt burns. He tried to climb an overturned vessel. I guess that's why it's called the Red Sea. Back at the peaceful shore I’m unsure if I even have a purpose. That’s when I see a body float to the surface. I jump into action not believing what I see. Then I overturn the body and recognize it’s me.

Sometimes being tired doesnt mean you should stop

remember moments of when you woke up

that feeling wont escape your eyes

why?

maybe because you dont have to cry

sometimes we all feel like the need to die

disappear into empty voids of time

leave behind everything and everyone who never held us dear

but who said that those people never held us dear?

who said that those things we touched never pulled us near?

Disappear, we all want to fade away leaving blank canvases behind

but trust me ,time doesnt heal'

and if you fade, you'd be leaving a hole through it's side.

because time is a canvas ,one that you paint yourself

and each and every moment of your life is a color on it's shelf

you are the artist of a story told to many others before you

you're parents drew you into reality, and they adore you

so do your friends- were family, maybe not related by blood

maybe time doesnt move back, but if anyone then you could

step back from that ledge that takes all misery into play

remember moments of laughter and times when friends and you had played

the game of life is not one that holds your hand's and guides the way

I dont have much to give, but atleast if you let me say "Not today"

I know you're tired, walking long roads do just the same

but sometimes being tired means that at the end all prices are payed in full

that is life, we all tear ourselves apart

you're life is the artist, and life is your peice of art.

Light slants personably across my desk, draping warmly over my elbow and onto the floor. It glints too, off the finish of your guitar, which I laid yesterday in the center of my room. I gaze at it as I write, or attempt to write, a letter to you. The only word I have scratched onto my paper so far is Dear. And even that I hesitate over, uncertain if I am still allowed to call you that. Now I dip my pen gently into the ink, letting dark pearls drip slowly from the tip. And I write:

Is it possible...

- and I suppose dear, that you are the only one who knows the answer to this-

...that you still love me?

I have already confessed. Now my heart feels like the wavering cobweb suspended in the corner of my window- uncertain if it has been abandoned. I leave the web there because I appreciate the resemblance.

I turn around in my chair. The rosewood of your guitar begs my fingers to run across it's neck again, but I do not want to give in to the desire until I know your answer. Slowly, I tug my eyes away from it. It is only an instrument after all, it should not be so hard.

Outside, the leaves have begun to curl and saturate with warm colors in the cool air. They swirl in lovely spirals. The season reminds me of the aroma of your steamy, morning coffee that fogs your glasses when you try to drink it too early. I decide to add two more words to the letter:

If so...

And there again I hesitate. If you do still love me, then what else is there to question? I scratch the words out- the first question is the only one I really want to ask you.

I ease open the desk drawer, letting it's protesting screech ring out into the empty house. I begin again on a fresh sheet of paper, not wanting you to see my conflicting, uncertain thoughts. We could be like that, you know. Like a new peice of paper. I think that that is really what I am asking you. Can we?

As I slip the letter with the single question -written to Dear, signed Yours- into its envelope, I wonder- is it your little secret? Will I be declined an honest, straightforward answer?

And then the letter is in the mailbox.

My slippered feet pad up the stairs again, and I pick up your guitar, dear. I think that if you love me, you will not mind if I play it, and if you do not, then I won't care about what you have to say on the subject. So, now I am playing your song on your guitar, and I will probably still be sitting here, singing hoarsely the day your response arrives. And if it never does...?

Well I do not think about that. While the question is still unanswered-

Is it possible that you still love me?

-I may cling to the hope that you do.

Song: Quelqu'un m'a dit - Carla Bruni

"Hey, can you put away the dishes?"

"Yeah, hold on. Just gotta paste my college essay and submit this application. Just one seconnnddd annndddd-"

"You never do anything! Wow. Why are you being so rude?"

"W-What?!"

"You never do anything I ask you. Stop saying you can't-"

"I never said I can't! Why are you acting like this? Are you okay?"

"What? Wow. I'm done. Stop yelling at me!"

"But I didn't even do anything! Are you okay?"

"Wow. I can't even deal with you right now."

"Why do you never trust me? All you ever do is scream in my face so I can't get anything done!"

"NO I DON'T!"

"Do you even hear yourself?"

"Yes, I can, and I'm NOT yelling."

"Mhmm. Whatever you say."

...

...

"Go to your room."

"What?"

"You heard me. I said go to your room."

"But I didn't even-"

"GO!"

If you're sensitive, or faint of heart,

avoid this story before I start.

For this is a grisly tale of survival

that, if you can stand the savage, has no rival.

It begins in a damp, underground basement.

There's a live mouse trap that is an encasement.

(You've got an idea where this is leading,

so now is your chance to refrain from reading.)

Are you still with me? Then let me begin.

I checked the trap, and saw a mouse within.

It ate poison pellets. In a matter of time,

that little mouse would die for his trespassing crime.

In twenty-four hours, he would be dead,

and then I would do a task which I dread.

I'd carry the trap into the woods,

open the lid, and dump out the goods.

(By the way - if you didn't stop reading at first,

you might reconsider. Or, prepare for the worst.)

The time had come. I peered into the gap.

Another fool mouse had entered the trap!

Now, this drama had happened once before.

It ended in cannibalistic gore.

So through the thin gap I dropped more pellets in,

to prevent this dim mouse from eating dead kin.

Yet again, I waited another full day

before dumping the earthly remains away.

One more peek through the gap. Nothing moved.

At last, the contents could be removed.

I revisited the woods, far from my house.

When I lifted the lid, out ran one tough mouse!

I couldn't believe what I just saw.

I looked in the trap, and dropped my jaw.

On that first trapped mouse, the second mouse did dine.

All that was left was a stomach and a spine.

No feet. No tail. No ribs, no rump, no bull!

Why, that rodent had even consumed the skull!

The poison pellets? They were all gone.

What doesn't kill you will make you strong.

(If for distress you think you will sue -

you can't say that I didn't warn you.)

The moral of the story is this advice -

Get a cat, or get far away from the mice.

Something strange is going on in this neighborhood, and I don't think the Ghostbusters will be enough to stop it.

If you've read my first Stranger Things review (https://theprose.com/post/90768/harry-situation-reviews-stranger-things), you know already that I'm a huge fan of the series, and I couldn't wait for a second season to arrive. Well it finally arrived and I binged watched the shit out of it.

Season 2 takes place a year later and all seems semi-normal for the residents of Hawkins, Indiana. Will Byers, who was taken to the "Upside Down", is suffering from severe episodes of trauma, which involve being stalked by a shadowy spider-monster from that world (the creature you see in the picture above). His friends and family try to comfort him the best they can but things go south when these episodes become far too real.

On some side notes, Eleven is actually alive and well, being kept hidden from the world by Sheriff Hopper (David Harbour). She learns the truth of her past, as well as another girl with similar psychic abilities. Let me just say that I really like the chemistry between Eleven and Hopper. While they really didn't communicate last season, they act like father and daughter in this season and it's beautiful. David Harbour really shines too. I'm definitely convinced that he's gonna make a great Hellboy when that film is released.

There's also a subplot about Nancy and Jonathan (older siblings of two of the boys from the series) trying to give justice for their friend Barb. Yeah you remember that red-haired girl with the glasses last season, right? Because of her death last season everyone's been going all hashtag justiceforbarb. I'll be honest, I never gave a single shit about Barb at all. That subplot was handled okay but I didn't care for it.

We got some newcomers to this season. Some of you may recognize Paul Reiser from the hit sitcom Mad About You. Here he plays a scientist that is trying to help Will overcome his trauma from the Upside Down, as well as keep a tight lid on what goes on in the Hawkins Labs. Sean Astin plays Winona Ryder's boyfriend. Kinda weird when you realize that both Sean Astin and Winona Ryder are about the same age. Any who I actually like his character. He wants to get involved. He doen's shut out Winona Ryder when he learns the bizarre truth of Hawkins. Glad nothing bad happens to him in the end, right? Right?

Joining the gang of boys is this girl named Max, and she was okay. Nothing really special about her. Her brother is a piece of shit though.

Another positive is Steve, Nancy's old boyfriend from last season. For those who've watched the first season Steve was the typical popular asshole that picked on Jonathan. Now he's a much more better and sympathetic character. That's only because we got this other asshole in the form of Max's stepfather, which by the way was a huge shitbag through and through.

The writing and directing styles of this season are still a spectacle to watch. It always felt cinematic. The Duffer Brothers are just true geniuses.

The visual effects are still amazing too. The Upside-Down is still creepy as well as the monsters that dwell within it.

Basically I can easily conclude with what you liked last season you'll definitely love this season as well. All the actors (especially the younger ones) deliver A-grade performances, the writing is amazing, the directing is great, and the story kept me interested from start to finish. I really wish I could talk more about it but then I would have to spoil major plot points, and you all know me better than that. At least I hope you do.

If you haven't watched Stranger Things yet, what the fuck are you doing with your life? Stop whatever you're doing and watch it already. Geez!

Positives:

-Amazing acting

-Amazing writing

-Visual style

-Memorable episodes

-Suspenseful terror

-Tribute to 80s nostalgia

Negatives:

-Barb storyline

Final Grade: A+

Another great conclusion for an awesome Netflix series. Can't wait for Season 3. Hold on... that means I gotta wait for one. Dang it!

Have you watched Stranger Things and its second season? What were your thoughts? Please be kind, leave a like and comment, and check back for more reviews as we draw closer to my 150th review special!

Best Quote:

Eleven: "Friends don't lie."

#harrysituationreviews #netflix #80s #scifi #AGrade #mystery #strangerthings

Jesus waited alone at the bus stop. The gray clouds had just given way to a steady drizzle that broke his heart. The bus was late again, but Jesus stayed still and patient. He had no choice. His mama was waiting for him.

She was waiting silently even though her room at the hospital was anything but quiet. The monitors had a variety of sounds. Some beeped, some buzzed and some even crackled. He’d sit in the chair next to her bed and try to force the noise from his ears. He’d squint and try to think only of his mama’s voice. The voice that told him not to go out at night, not to hang around with thugs and not to take drugs.

Looking back, Jesus tried to figure out if he would have been able to make different choices that would have stopped things from winding up this way. It killed him, ate away at his soul, the events that took place. But he had been forced to make those decisions. No one ever said no to the Red Aces, no one, and everyone knew if you defied their commander-in-chief, Lowdown, you were dead meat. Why had he said what he said and done what he’d done?

Lowdown ran the neighborhood where twelve-year-old Jesus and his mother scraped out their existence. Almost every day on his way to the crumbling edifice that Jesus and his friends called school, he could see Lowdown and the Aces standing around the Aces Up Bodega. They would taunt and hiss at Jesus as he walked by and Jesus knew they’d be coming for him. Coming for him to sell their drugs, coming for him to run their money, coming for him to take away his hope for a different life.

The young nurse who sometimes smiled at Jesus and gave him a juice suddenly appeared at the door and broke him out of his thoughts.

“Honey,” she started, “the doctors met again today to discuss your mother’s care. Do you think you might be able to get your uncle to come here with you tomorrow?”

Jesus was thoughtful. His Uncle Raj was now his only adult relative. But he was so often high or drunk, Jesus didn’t know where to find him half the time. He couldn’t let the social workers find out about that though. He didn’t want to wind up in foster care. From what he heard, foster care could be worse than prison. Foster parents were usually very interested in the money and not very interested in the care. One kid he knew almost starved to death and another almost died when a set of rickety bunk beds fell on him. These thoughts really scared Jesus and he decided then and there to redouble his efforts to find uncle. Jesus was better off on his own or with his drunk uncle than having some crazy foster family making his life harder.

When it began to grow dark, Jesus kissed his mother softly on her cool pale cheek. He brushed his tears out of his eyes and headed toward the sickly yellow glow of the florescent lights by the nurses’ station. He cast his eyes for the kind nurse but then imagined she may have left for the home already.

“I’ll be back with my uncle Raj tomorrow.” he said, as the heavy nurse with the glasses on her bosom looked up at him.

“That would be a good idea.” She said curtly and then watched him as he headed for the elevators.

Jesus was thankful that the rain had stopped as he hit the street outside the hospital. The bare treads on his worn-out sneakers slapped at the cement. At least this pair felt pretty good and he was glad his mom had found them at the church rummage sale. He had worn the last pair he owned until his toes wore through the front.

He didn’t want to be out much past dark in case Lowdown and his friends were hanging around, but he really needed to find his uncle. Jesus thought the liquor store on 184th Street might be a good place to try, so he headed uptown.

When he came across the flashing neon lights, he thought about how mad this mom would be if she knew he was going to head in there.

“Jesus, you stay away from those places. There’s nothing but trouble waiting for you in a place like that.”

Momma, there’s trouble everywhere, Jesus thought and his eyes began to bleed tears again.

The cowbells on the door clanked and the bleary eyed counter girl looked up from her copy of Latina. “What can I get for ya?” she sighed. “You look a little young to be in here.”

Jesus felt nervous all of a sudden and blurted, “Do you know a guy named Raj? I’ve been looking all over. I really need to find him.”

The cashier squinted and gave him a steely look. “Maybe. What do you want with him?”

Jesus took a breath and again, blurted, “He’s my uncle, my mom’s brother and she’s really sick and I need him.”

Her eyes turned from icy to lukewarm as she decided to trust him. She shook her head and said, “I am not really sure where he is now. He bought a bottle earlier and I know sometimes he likes to go up on the roof and ... enjoy a beverage or two.”

Indeed, Jesus did find him crumpled in a heap next to one of the heating structures. His black hightops were untied and he wore no socks. The empty bottle of Cisco lay a few feet away. Jesus looked at his uncle’s unshaven face and thought that he would really have to clean him up before tomorrow.

“Uncle Raj! Uncle Raj!” He shook his shoulder. The leather jacket his uncle wore was sticky and smelled like vomit. Jesus began to panic.

“Uncle Raj! Uncle Raj!” He shook him harder and shouted this time.

“Yo, yo, YO! What the…Oh, it’s you. What’s up little man? Long time, no see. What are you doin’ up here anyway?”

Jesus could have cried with relief. His uncle was not only, not dead, but he was relatively coherent. He must have started that bottle a lot earlier in the day.

“My mom is so sick, Uncle Raj and I really need you!”

“ Rosa’s sick? What happened? What are you talking about?’

“I think it was Lowdown or one of the Aces. I think… I think..“ Jesus started crying now. It was the first time he had told anyone this version of the story.

“I think it was my fault.” Jesus began to sob uncontrollably.

“What? What! Little man, Little Man. Start from the beginning and tell me what the fu.. what exactly happened.”

His uncle reached out for him and pulled him fiercely against his chest. It was then that Jesus was able to let it all loose. All the feelings he had been hiding from the kind nurse, from the hospital social workers, from the world. There on the roof, taking strength from the only family member he had left to talk to.

“I didn’t want to sell their drugs, I didn’t want to run their money. I told them… I told them, “ he sobbed, “I told them my mama would kill me. And then, and then, they told me they’d take care of her. Why? Why? Did I mention her? I didn’t know. I didn’t know what else to say! I NEVER should have, I NEVER should have… HE HIT HER! Uncle Raj, HE HIT HER!” Jesus was shrieking now. “HE HIT HER with his car and now she’s going to die!”

“Those little fucking punks.” Uncle Raj’s blue eyes looked like ice now. ”Those little fucking punks. This is NOT on you, Jesus. NOT on you.” Raj grabbed him even tighter and Jesus cried and cried.

“I’ll take care of this. This is NOT on you. I’ll handle those pendajas. Lowdown is a punk and I am going to make him feel pain. Let’s get you home little man. It’s getting cold out.”

Jesus was grateful that there was hot water at the apartment when he and Uncle Raj returned. He felt the warm water hit his body and although he cried a bit more, he felt some relief from the unbearable pain he had been carrying around the past two days.

He stepped out of the bathroom and stared from the hallway at Uncle Raj in the living room. He was sitting on the threadbare couch looking blankly at the television, smoking butt after butt. The coffee mug he was using as an ashtray smoldered with the remains of other cigarettes he had finished.

Without looking back at him, his uncle said, “Go to sleep little man. We’ll head to hospital in the morning.”

Jesus lay in bed and pushed away worrisome thoughts. His uncle had been unreliable in the past. Drunk, strung out, but he seemed different tonight. Jesus never felt safe around Raj, but tonight he did. He clung to this feeling of safety and used it to fall asleep.

Raj sat in the crappy living room and looked around. Everything in the apartment was old and shabby, but it was neat. Rosa worked so hard to make a life for them. Christ, what was he going to do now? This kid had no one. Rosa had to pull through this. He was only 24 years old. Many of his friends had kids, but Raj had carefully avoided that hot mess. Now what he going to do? Rosa was just going to have to pull through and that was it. Raj pulled off his dirty work boots and threw his legs up on the couch. Grabbing his leather jacket off the arm of the couch, he pulled it over his shoulders and went to sleep.

Morning came through the frayed blue curtain sheers and Raj felt stiff from the night on the couch. Although he’d admit to having spent the night in way worse places. His head throbbed and he kept his eyes shut while listening to the tink of Jesus’ spoon against the cereal bowl.

“Hey kid, pour me some, will ya?”

“I would Uncle Raj, but that was the last of the milk.”

“Yeah, ok, then.” Raj groaned and sat up. He lit himself a Camel and blew out the smoke from his first inhale. “Okay, run down and get me a café con leche and a buttered roll. But stay the hell away from Aces Up. Head down to the diner instead.”

“Sure thing, Uncle Raj.” He dropped his spoon and bowl in the sink and shot out the door.

He’s a good kid, thought Raj. Rosa did a good job with him. Rosa was always a good kid, too. It was Raj that was the wild one. Growing up, neither of them had an easy time. Their dad died in the accident at the factory when Rosa was six and Raj was only one. After that Mama had to work night and day to keep a roof over their heads. Rosa became like a second mother to her little brother, but once Mama got sick, she couldn’t control him. Raj was sixteen when they found the tumor on her breast and when she finally succumbed to her cancer, he was twenty. After she died, Raj couldn’t bear to spend too much time with Rosa and had made himself scarce.

He decided it would be a good idea to jump in the shower before making the trip to the hospital. When he saw Rosa’s pink razor lying among the soap and shampoo, he decided he would shave, too. He owed it to Rosa and Jesus to look responsible. He regretted not having clean clothes to change into.

Raj took sips of his coffee and carried his roll to the bus stop as Jesus walked quickly next to him. They were both lost in their own thoughts as the bus pulled up.

“Oh shit. I don’t have a card.” He confessed to Jesus.

“No matter, “Jesus replied, “I got it.” He swiped twice and they climbed aboard. They took their seats and Raj rubbed his face, trying to get alert.

When they made their way to Rosa’s room, the door was closed and immediately Jesus knew that something was wrong.

“Wait, wait, Uncle Raj, don’t go in yet. Wait! Wait!” He started crying as he ran down to the nurses’ station. The kind nurse, the young one, came around and knelt down, hugging Jesus closely.

“Jesus, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She whispered.

Jesus felt her stethoscope pressing into him. He smelled her shampoo. His eyes were shut tight. How could his mind be registering any of this stuff when his mother was dead? His mother was dead. His. Mother. Was. Dead.

He walked, in a trance, afraid, down the hall to her room. Everything seemed louder, brighter, harsher. He looked in the doorway and saw his uncle kneeling at his mother’s bedside, crying, “Oh Dios mio. Oh Dios Mio.”

Jesus ran to the bed and threw his upper body across his mother’s chest. “Mama. Mama, Mami!!” he shrieked. The room was silent underneath the sobbing of Jesus and Raj’s now whispered prayers. The beeping and buzzing had stopped.

Raj stood taking deep, gulping breaths, wiped his eyes and sat in the plastic chair in the corner of the room. He looked at his nephew weeping over his mother’s body. There would be no revenge against Low Down. He would not risk escalating a war with street punks. He would not waste time plotting and planning. All his energy needed to spent on this kid. This kid had no one now. No one. Raj thought about it and realized he had no one either. He hadn’t cared about anyone or anything in a long time. He cared about Jesus now though. The instant that boy fell into his care, under his responsibility, Raj vowed things would be different. He would find a new way with Jesus. Find a new life.

Poetry is this..

Poetry is waking up at 3am realizing, again, you're alone for the very first time. Poetry is going to a place of joy surrounded by the monsters of society and coming home to your demons that waited for you. Poetry is being empty inside with no opening and no closing. It is being in a relationship with someone who's been stabbed in the back and the front and you being emotionally unavailable; trying to push a car with no gas. It is dragging your sick self out in the open with a smile on your face and tears held for dear ransom. Poetry is never trusting those around you or the ones you let into you. It is feeling nothing but telling everything. It is every "I love you" sent with each space in between filled with doubt. Poetry is this, your truly.