Stone Soup Servings is a regular series for Oddball Magazine that features upcoming performers at Stone Soup Poetry, the long-running spoken word venue in the Boston area that has partnered with Oddball Magazine. Stone Soup Poetry now meets from 8-10 p.m. every Monday at the Out of The Blue Art Gallery’s new location at 541 Massachusetts Avenue in Central Square Cambridge, Massachusetts. The open mike sign-up at 7:30 p.m.

Today, we welcome back, LUCCI, a past Stone Soup feature. He will bring his socially conscious words to us once again. As a sampling, we present the first of his new series of character pieces, which we will hopefully hear more of tonight.


What’s Wrong With Me, Part 1

What’s Wrong With Me?
What’s wrong with me?
As a child I recall many things
I wish to forget, to no avail.
Memories of confusion, fear,
Shame and, even joy at times.
Confused when forced into acts
I had no interest in.
Fear of being dealt with like
A punching bad at the gym
By not only those who despise me
But my loved ones as well.
Shame in myself for thinking
This can’t be the way I was made.
Joy at random moments
When I had not a care in the world.
What’s wrong with me?
My first sexual encounter would not be by choice,
Friendly manipulation.
He was like a big brother.
Multiple times I would not fight him.
He was bigger, stronger, I trusted him.
Now that I think about it,
Would he really count as my first,
Or would my father, since I was three?
Sure my dad was rough with fists,
Feet, and, even his dick,
But didn’t all dads do that?
What’s wrong with me?
My father was especially jealous
On an insane level.
Apparently, he was the only man I was to love.
When knowledge of me with other boys
Got back to him, he felt the need
To show his love was better than anyone else’s
With more punches, more kicks,
An endless cycle of even deeper,
Harsher thrusts.
Shame on me for betraying him.
I was afraid of him like
Sugar is afraid of water.
He seemed as if compared to now,
He was formerly gentle.
I had no idea what to do,
Who to trust. Where to go.
As a teen, there are few moments
In daily life I would feel joy.
Perhaps my evolution of hormones
Allows me to appreciate my father’s work.
Most of all, I would be ecstatic from the inside
When each session is over.
But, am I supposed to be?
What’s wrong with me?