Paint My World Yellow // DNF

Dead poets literature

Starry Eyes - Cigarettes after sex

George reads poetry with a voice that makes me want to cry like i have never cried before. He reads the lines with such a love, care and sympathy in his voice that i find myself feeling sorry for the poems.

And George hums melodies with such a warmth, pain and fondness that i find myself on the floor, late at night, George on the other side of the line as i fall helplessly in love.

And George talks about his mom with such a care, emotion and devotion that i find myself missing her like a long lost childhood dream. I guess that makes sense.

I think that in a way George could make me miss the smallest of things, the most heartless monsters and paper planes. He could make me miss old jackets and wrapping paper.

George is like dead poets poetry. I think that's why most artists become famous only after they are gone.

We run our fingers over the words that they screamed out late at night on the paper and we hurt for them, we feel how much it pained them to live so now that they are gone we feel this kind of pain while reading, watching or hearing.

'how dare you leave me like this? How dare i not be with you while you were here for me?'

maybe that's why i feel this kind of hatred for people that say 'people only start appreciating artists when they are gone.'

Because i want to scream back 'OF COURSE PEOPLE WILL ONLY MISS US WHEN WE WILL BE GONE!! WHAT ELSE ARE THEY SUPPOSED TO DO?? READ ABOUT SOMEONES PAIN AS THEY ARE STANDING NEXT TO THEM AND FEEL THE SAME PAIN AS IF THEY WERE GONE? ITS LIKE TRYING TO WRITE A REVIEW FOR A COFFEE THAT YOU HAVE NOT ORDERED YET!!'

and people don't like that. People feel the need to bring others down because they loved something so much and now that it's gone people miss it. Or they want to bring others down because they loved them more, they had it worse.

I remember a boy from my class. As other kids parents read them stories before bed and gave them a kiss on the forehead before sleep, he would sit in front of his drunk mothers bed and read her bedtime stories as she fell asleep. That wasn't supposed to happen. He was supposed to lay in his bed as his mom closed the covers and turned off the light. At the age of 10 he was turning off the night light for his mother.

And the teachers in the school didn't understand why this kid at the age of 10 was standing in front of the class, reading Shakespeare, pronouncing the words correctly as he goes. And why does he look up at them with the most hopeful eyes, why does he hunger for their love.

He must be selfish. He must think that he is better than everyone else. He must-

I guess they didn't know that he pronounced the words perfectly because he practiced besides his drunk mothers bed every night and he read Shakespeare because he wanted to be enough, he wanted to be loved. I guess they didn't know.

What i loved the most about him was that he wasn't mad when his childhood friends cried to him because their moms had stopped reading them bedtime stories. He patted their backs and lulled them asleep on the bus on their way home.

And when someone asked him why wasn't he mad, he would say

"they learned about maturing as their mothers stopped reading them bedtime stories. I learned about maturity as i heard my father scream at my mother in the kitchen that one day she won't wake up. That one day she'll drink so much that she'll fall asleep for the last time. We all learn about maturing differently. While they spent their nights hoping that their parents will read them a bedtime story the next evening too, i spent my nights hoping that my mother wakes up and i can read her a bedtime story the next night again. They learned about maturing as their parents read them the bedtime stories for the last time. I learned about maturity as i read the bedtime story for my mother for the last time."

and he would speak so calmly. So patiently.

"And that doesn't make the other kids pain any less. We all learn about change in our own way and things changing will never not be painful. They'll hurt the same no matter what. So just because i was the one holding the book, doesn't mean that they are hurting less because their parents are not reading for them anymore. We all still hurt the same."

What a shame that he was reading Shakespeare at such a young age. That made him speak in tongues that other kids didn't understand. He spoke with such words that other kids wouldn't hear what he said.

What a shame that my parents read me bedtime stories. Maybe then i would have read Shakespeare and understood the tongues and heard the words he said.

What a shame i didn't.

What a shame that no one did.

What a shame that as we all started 9th grade we started feeling this kind of pain while reading his poems.

Something that went along the lines of

'how dare you leave me like this? How dare i not be with you while you were here for me?'