I want to go new places
But I’m afraid of how to get there
I want to meet new people
But they’re something to beware
I want to make connections
But strings are better cut
I want to talk to you again
But if I do, then what?
Whispering into my ear
Pink snow on the ground
I could set the blame for my existence
Squarely at your feet;
Or my life in its present instance
I could christen your defeat.
Or I could claim my turning point
Was somewhere over there,
And blame the careless wanderer
Who had no fire I could share.
I could fit upon the scales of justice
The world, by degrees,
And blame my failures on this:
The whip and bended knees.
But for all the blame that could’ve been,
There’s nothing to debate.
Others may bring suffering;
Only I can change my fate.
How can I explain
That all that came so easy
Everything that should be
Came to be so hard
I know the fault is mine
As if that should make it fine
As if acknowledgement can make a problem disappear
But no, it never does
And no solutions light like doves
On the edges of the windows which I never seem to open
Yet always go to as a token
Of all the things I hope and fear.
Well I can disapprove
But what’s that mean to you?
We both will never move
So what then can I do?
I bite my tongue and let your voice
Become the leader in our chorus
Pretending that I have no choice
Knowing that it’s all an ouroboros.
There’s a part of me that hates the lie
When I am told to be myself;
I’ve felt pieces of me die
To preserve another’s sense of self.
Yet who is there to blame, but I
Who made the choice to hold my tongue
And not to let the thing untie,
Lest I make another come undone?
Better that I rage and sigh
In quiet places no one sees,
And let that part that hates the lie
Find truth in tending others’ needs.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do
I want to be the one that forgives you
Not the one that’s stoking flames
And dousing inhibitions
But I want to laugh and feel no fear
Of what was said, and if you were near
I want to be able to see myself
And see more than just a mirror
I want to be more than the cynic
Seeing every kindness as a gimmick
Hearing every prophet, thinking
“I know what causes visions…”
But if I want to forgive you
I know what I will have to do
And I don’t know if I can dare
To give myself forgiveness too.
There’s so much of artistry
Where can there be a place for me?
With bitterness I lace my words
To quell the death I’ve chosen
As if it puts me with the birds
To lace my quill with poison
But I know myself afraid of heights
And that we create our greatest plights
Yet I don’t know what to do
When everything that I could be
Always seems to look like you
And I have no clue what would look like me
So instead I merely take what’s free
And try to turn it into artistry.
If all I am is worthless
What am I to do?
And if hated’s the imperfect
Then what the hell are you?
I’ve been afraid to act with joy
But that never bothered you
You have lived with others’ bitterness
And done the best that you could do
You have laughed at what was funny
Even if only to you
And persevered when others, envious,
Hated when such smiles grew
You have lived a life of sorrow
And pretended that you never knew
I pray that I’ll remember this
And take my strength from you.
Happy Mother’s Day.