Non-Poetic Rant from the Armchair: “Not Saving the World”

It’s hard for me to figure out what I want to do with my life because
I want to participate in normality
And that tends to encompass the majority of things
I don’t want to fight for:
Grades and jobs that entail
Bending over backwards to show people my worth.
I don’t want to be under-worked and underpaid and underestimated because of my age.
I want to be respected as a human, with ideas.
That seems like decades from now, possibly.
But what ridiculous thing can I do if I choose to run against the system?
It all amounts to shame.

What if I don’t want to solve the world’s problems?
What if I just want to be, because everything is essentially meaningless anyway,
Except for the joy of people, and even that’s temporary to their existence.
Saving the world is such a reckless idea.
Who said the world needs to be saved?
What said it can be?  Continue reading Non-Poetic Rant from the Armchair: “Not Saving the World”

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Poetic Rant from the Train: “Fast Life”

Why do I always leave in a hurry?
Why can I never slow down?
Why do I go places to say I’ve been there?
Why don’t I look around?
Sometimes I think it’s about personality,
It would be a shame to change.
But if I’m different and I’ll be happy,
What makes me stay the same?
“Relax” says the graffiti outside the train,
“Relax” says the constant rain.
But how can I listen when life seems to go so fast?
One moment I’m here,
Next on another continent,
And I hardly felt the change.
One moment certain people matter,
Next I forgot their name.

I guess once again I’m in this ridiculous dilemma,
Trying to avoid the changing tides of life,
Looking for a constant,
Deluded into its existence,
Never stopping to see the real light.

“Art…”

Art,
My sweet devil,
Save me.
I’ve
Gotten so comfortable with falling apart.

Emptiness,
Like the dried up stream,
I run from.
At times I’m fooled.
The stream is still dry.

Love,
A quest to find some spark,
Somewhere,
Some life.
My loving tears
Can’t turn a wasteland to a park.

Passion,
What is it?
Books, songs, dances,
I see nothing.
Sometimes so foreign,
Just like laughing.

Purpose?
I’ve erased them.
Nothing really worth it.
No difference can be made.
Living to live,
To what?

Continue reading “Art…”

“Everything has changed”

Everything has changed.
I avoid stopping so I don’t have to understand it.
A year of hills and touchy pain,
Spiraling up and down
Through heartbreak, freedom and depression,
To life, and suddenly requiring my heart again,
After it’s tumbled in the washing machine for a short time,
Might be the right expression.

I can’t stop, nor want I to go back or forward.
All intimidate me.
The present innocent and content,
The future that I must define,
The past I never want again.

I need time to think,
Room to breathe,
To figure out what’s really been going on.
This new life, of constant learning, of always being,
Contrasts brightly to the hours spent
Hating having to stay at home.
And who have I become with these new people?
I feel softer, but more equal.
And where has my electronic music gone?
Like my poems, out the big wall-window,
In the rain, trampled by the bicycles.
Just like my liking for being alone.

And yet with all that,
Of being completely lost or completely new,
Although both might be the same,
For once in my life I can say one thing,
I feel no more need for change.

Poetic Rant on the Grass: “Introducing Me”

I’m the kind of hippie
That drinks red wine
While staring at the city
And goes to the park to write.
Then I come indoors,
Put on my black slacks,
And everyone thinks seriousness
Is the only thing I got going on.
Like, when will you take a joke?
Well your joke is just not funny.
See Plato’s jokes are funny,
Yours seem to be a product of insecurity.
Then I get awfully bored with acting proper
Because around me the people start taking it seriously.
That ends up being funny to me,
And I decide that I must have an attitude problem.
I can’t be the only one thinking that most of college,
Especially classes, is lame.
And then I get into this deep rejection
Of what society deems is useful.
As many have said before me,
it’s a pile of dusty books,
While the world is actually around me,
But I guess civil society has an arbitrary cost of getting in.

You know it’s hard to reconcile;
And I thought I would go crazy
Until I re-read Emerson and
He told me to be myself even if that means being crazy,
Then Socrates let himself die over the exact same thing.

How to be good, I guess is the question?
That ridiculously dusty religious question,
That everyone talks about, but no one thinks.
For me, I don’t care about being good yet,
Because I’m not yet convinced it’s worth it.
I’m not planning on going to heaven,
And I hate injustice,
In the form of people taking advantage of the just.

At this point I think I should have taken a blanket to sit on,
As I’m pretty sure there’ll be dirt on my pants,
Which is hard to explain to a college population that
Doesn’t even go out,
(Unless in groups of 4-10).

Education in the city,
But it feels like there’s nowhere to go
Except for the small facets of nature,
Oases from working the tiresomeness of cultural life.
Although taking my journal with me might not be just that.
I write from my soul
(though there’s no such thing of course)
But my theoretical soul is a jumble of things
Because I too, like everyone else,
Have little idea who I am or where I am,
And certainly no idea of where I’m going,
It just bothers me how it’s hard to find some privacy for my ideas here.

“Someone once told me, to make sure I feel my pain…”

Someone once told me
To make sure I feel my pain,
Emotions are a spectrum,
Not a fire to be tamed.
And now here I was again,
Playing it safe.
Mediocre love for mediocre pain.
But the truth cannot hide
Behind the practicality of my brain.
The hopeless romantic, the girl on fire,
The poet smiling at the rain,
They cannot be contained.
Even if in light of pain,
And seemingly hopeless wandering and days so same,
A bolder life, a wilder love,
None can deny,
The vision’s a gift from above.

“Definitions of Home: Part 2, Decorations”

I am finally home.
So what if words can’t capture
My candle dancing,
The flutter of eyelids,
The bear paw of perfectly warm tea.
Even in the moment of fading friendships,
Of shattered world views,
Of being lost and often insecure,
This room feels like hope.
More than four walls of white paint,
It is the mere possession of it
That indicates a life so far well spent.
The little touches of art,
The colors, the plants,
The notes that I have saved,
They are the makers of a “me.”
And although I deny
The existence of a static personality,
Or well defined traits,
There is something extremely comforting
In looking at something
And being able to point to it and say –
That’s me!

And perhaps even if this is not all of me,
It is alright because
just like words are not full feelings,
So are these objects and this room,
Puzzle pieces of a life in progress
Of a creature whose uniqueness is written in these fine details.
Home is the place where you can read about yourself.
I’m made these walls mine,
Now they’re here to remind me of who I am,
And when in doubt, to find myself again.