Am I a storm to be quieted?
No, some of us need to scream.
I, I let you tape my mouth,
To prevent offense,
That came so easy with your prejudices.
Even after, I peeled it off,
For time I could not understand,
The new power I had gained.
Inch by inch,
I crawled back up to high ground
And found my voice again.
Here it echoes in the distance.
Though I wish you’d hear it,
It makes me content
That I’m doing something
You’d never understand.
(unpublished archive June 2015)
Everything here is so crowded with options and abundance, it seems to make the air thicker and harder to breathe. One has no trouble breathing on an empty meadow high up in the mountains. Here my three blankets are pilled up like mattresses, like the clothes in the corner, which I hardly wear, like the books on the shelf, all four of them just started, like all the objects and colors on the wall, like the electronics, four types of screens lined up on the desk.
My head screams. I imagine a room like that of a cell or a monastery, empty beyond a single bed. Empty so there’s room for my thoughts to enter it too.
Lying on the symbols of comfort, surrounded by bright and colorful lights, flowers, words, and decor, shoppes with my every undiscovered want, times a thousand. Choice, choice, and more choice. I become so distracted that it takes driving on the same old gray road that I’ve been driving every day for two years (if I manage to convince myself to turn off the radio), to be truly alone. Thoughts flow while I try not to crash, but a quietness permeates the air like nowhere else in the cities of the country, as I have no choice then but to hear my naked thoughts.
But the ride ends so soon, and I walk into places screaming, More! More! Think this! More TV! Eat! But what? Oh the time it takes to decide.
I watched a man say recently, how America never developed its own kitchen, as around the world all great cooking has been born out of limited options, and making the best of those possibilities. Although grateful tor the obvious, my mind starves for the limitations, like being stuck with a sheet of blank paper in a boring class, that enable me to truly be.
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”
My sweet devil,
Gotten so comfortable with falling apart.
Like the dried up stream,
I run from.
At times I’m fooled.
The stream is still dry.
A quest to find some spark,
My loving tears
Can’t turn a wasteland to a park.
What is it?
Books, songs, dances,
I see nothing.
Sometimes so foreign,
Just like laughing.
I’ve erased them.
Nothing really worth it.
No difference can be made.
Living to live,
Continue reading “Art…”
There’s a frightening coldness to a new city,
Even under shelter and comfort,
You feel closer to the homeless
Than to the ones rushing happily home.
After all, money is the only separation
And material things can be taken away.
These well-built white walls won’t hug you
If it all gets taken away.
Perhaps that’s the source of the coldness
Whether here or gone
Your presence is of no importance
Your disappearance is hidden
With a simple bird’s song.
These bright city lights keep shining
The lives of people keep on winding,
And no one notices you going along.
They say home is where someone notices you’re gone.
I’ve tried to define home as a place in myself
And now I’ve noticed I’m gone.
I’m a bundle of fears,
Of changes and tears
Of burned bridges,
Of stressful falling of hair on the floor,
Of hasty decisions on lovers,
Of books which lose sense when they enter my head.
Where have I gone?
Though was I ever really home?
I read somewhere that great art never comes out of comfort.
I’m on the hunt for that secluded meadow or the rosy park,
And when I find them, I wonder why I have nothing to write.
When things are too good, there is no story.
Happy love poetry is the driest subject of them all.
People’d rather know your tears when heartbroken;
They’d rather feel your biggest fall.
So I come inside from searching –
In a messy room, there’s no distraction from my mess.
And I quietly begin working,
To find and take the troubles off my chest.
On plain sight, I despise you,
Your painful awkwardness,
Your lack of worldliness,
The way you bend like plastic to my every word.
I tell myself to move away,
Because we become like the people around us.
But you seem to be the only one who stays,
So I can’t bring myself to make this change.
But it goes further than that. Continue reading “Confessions, Part III”