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(unpublished archive June 2015)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 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.
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.
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 –
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.
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 am reaching out for something to hold on to
As the map in the corner,
The once prized symbol of hope,
Makes drops in my eyes.
I am once again alone,
Walking away with seemingly nothing,
Hoping the rest of the world,
Those people I don’t know,
Won’t crush me and send me running home,
Where I’m not meant to be.
But how I want a home so badly.
Anything to end the pain of always going on and never stopping.
But I know I wasn’t meant to have such comfort.
Being ordinary never was my own.