Feral

If ever I doubted the veracity of evolution, Children confirm it for me.
The nature versus nurture debate becomes even more vague as I watch them tumble, hordes of horrifying energy --
clawing clutching shrieking spitting falling pouncing choking rolling stomping pouting telling lies and spouting secrets.

THEY are not meant to exist in groups. There they become pure animal instinct, grouping, segregating, leading, ostracizing, punishing. They'd stone each other for sure if it weren't for us telling them to PLAY NICE BE GENTLE BE KIND DON'T HIT DON'T BITE STOP KICKING HIM THAT HURTS HIM DON'T PUSH DON'T RUN PLEASE STOP SCREAMING DON'T GRAB THAT FOOD OUT OF HER HAND COVER YOUR COUGH GET A TISSUE WIPE YOUR BOTTOM, WASH YOUR HANDS AND USE SOAP--FORTHELOVEOFGOD USE SOAP

And then they cry, or laugh, and the similarity to a pack of wild baboons is broken -- you see a three year old child of your own species and suddenly it's all right and you scoop them up and hold them tight, laughing, tickling, ready to bite their chubby cheeks and daring to let those tiny, sharp-nailed hands wrap around yours.

feeling alive again
like I have a minute to breathe in, exhale --
and act.

I've been a shell, a chrysalis
seemingly so dead inside
but yet the cold winter didn't crush me
and I resume
to thrive.

so many hours upon hours I sat
staring at the TV
shows I tried to absorb
like my identity:
Culture.

Now the sponge overflows
brain-dead no longer, yet zombified
BEWARE THE APOCALYPSE

I rise.