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This one was written in March of 1987 (must have been 16 or 17)...

MY ANTI-SOCIAL POPPY FIELD

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Bitterness descending, as the sky was a violent orange, I wished for the stars, but they had gone on vacation. I sat in the poppy field, and caressed my newly sheared head. My hair, now scattered over my lap, stood still in the silence. My heart almost stopped, but I forced it to live. My eyes were so swollen from many a tear shed. That was long ago. I had sat at the spot for a day, and a half. Reasons, I needed none, besides the important one. Lack of direction. I had no control over my life, and every place that I turned was a dead end. Suicide seemed too dramatic. I had always been the practical type. When I chopped off my hair, I had sliced off a finger. A bloody pool of indecision covered my sleeve. I now stood out from the rest, missing one finger. I had taken control by cutting my hair, but now I had a missing finger. New problems arounse. I felt alienation. All the poppies were crimson, but I was only chalk dust and even my bloody sleeve couldn't compete with the poppies patterned beauty.

I opened my eyes, and I thought I was in hell, but it was only the contrast between the darkness, and the fire. I sat up, alarmed- for I had not a fire before, but I saw him, and could not be angry. He was a strange one, but he looked much like me, w/chopped auburn hair, and a missing pinky finger. He noticed my frail body, sitting awkward, and he put his hand on my shoulder, and my contented body relaxed. I had no fear, or alienation, from that day forward and we eventually left that poppy field.

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Hmmm....I don't know!!!