Category: Personal

Conflict

You say I’ll become what I think I am —
Your favored mind over matter theory;
But I think what I’ve heard again and again,
And wonder, how doesn’t that apply to me?

My role models are filled with despair;
My benefits of doubt dismissed as fantasy.
I’m told to trust no one —
Now how doesn’t that apply to me?

I’m stubborn, to be sure:
When set to fight, I fear to flee;
But all your laughter at those led —
How doesn’t that apply to me?

Some might call me mediator
For my hate of animosity;
But now like any good diplomat,
Conflict’s all I see.

Mental Meanderings

I am running away again;
Every question is an answer
To the problems in my head.
There’s too much in the world today
That doesn’t seem quite right,
And I must face (or else fly from)
The fact I’m not a light.
I keep looking at paths forward
And I see too many lies;
The trouble with an honest liar
Is it always comes as a surprise
When the people who should be telling truths
Are telling you what face goes best with ties,
And like something that could be boxed,
They go ahead and advertise
The person that you ought to be
To fit into the largest mold.
But I’m afraid a world like that
For me, is just too cold;
Something in me rails against
The lies we’re asked to tell.
I tell the ones I need to;
But there’s none I mean to sell.

Immature

Does it make me immature
To always play the fool?
Does it make me somehow less
To play by your own rules?
Am I supposed to make it out
Like what is said is not a wall?
Am I supposed to never cry
Or feel anything at all?
No matter if I hear anger
In every other breath;
No matter if my father
Jokes of his own death;
No matter is supposed to be
Beyond my reckoning:
I’m supposed to somehow know this world
That I have never seen.
To know the foolishness of man —
Is that maturity?
If so, I’ve had my fill
And I beg you let me be.

A July 4th

July fourth
Watching fireworks
Each one, a family
Each one, a memory
Every one a possibility
Only, not for me
The people behind those lights
I will never meet
The moments that they make
Will never require me to be complete
And I’ve been told so many times
Not to make so much of little things
But it strikes me in its tragedy
And the tears take off with failing wings.

Anniversary the Third

Apparently, today (technically yesterday now — sorry) was my blog’s third anniversary. I had meant to begin blogging on my birthday (later in the month), a sort of coming of age present to myself; but, metaphorically speaking, the temperature of my feet began to drop, and I decided it’d be best to just jump in before I completely lost my nerve. I’m very glad I did so.

Though I haven’t exactly been on top of things lately, I appreciate this community a great deal, and everyone who’s decided to join me here, recently and in the past. I wish I could return half so much of your cleverness, kindness, and attention. But I’m afraid I must again caution that my attentions have external reasons to be diverted, and I may (assuming that’s even possible) be even more scarce than I’ve been. Sorry in advance!

Recurring Regret

I’ve been dreaming of you again:
My bloodless sister, my long-lost friend.
We used to be as thick as thieves,
Until stealing away became my trend.

I’d caught anger and fallen ill;
And thinking quarantine was best,
I shut you out until you caught a chill
And decided to leave me to my rest.

But now I see you in my dreams
And in them, we are friends again;
But in waking up, I recall the years,
And I only want to sleep again.

Invitation

I’ve imagined each scenario,
Examined with a fine-tooth comb;
Will it be failure pronounced in stereo,
Or a fairytale until I’m home?
Will I be a disappointment?
A catatonic mess?
Will I choose “fool” for my employment,
Or will I dazzle and impress?
Will he be ashamed to claim relation?
Will the day ever even come?
Or will he rescind my invitation
Long before it’s said and done?