"When I am writing, I am trying to find out who I am…" –Maya Angelou
Every decision is repealable;
Nothing ever stays.
Sometimes I think it’s for the best;
Sometimes I choose to change my ways.
But that choice is repealable;
That decision never stays.
I find I don’t know how to make the choice
To choose to change my ways.
It will not come easy;
No, it never does.
But you know it won’t come easy;
Because the right path rarely does.
I’m so sorry… Of all the things I could have been, I became this. I could’ve been like my brother and reached out and made a life for myself where I could.
But instead I’m here. Still just sitting here. Waiting for something to befall me, be it destiny or accident.
Probably accident. Screech, crash, bang, and then I’m gone, in all likelihood. It would be just like me to not be paying any attention and accidentally step in front of a car. It wouldn’t be on purpose, of course. But it wouldn’t be exactly unwelcome.
I sometimes like to pretend that I can see the future. The prediction is always the same: I’m going to die alone. It’s not even a future anymore, it’s a fact. I’m going to die alone. So what’s it matter if it’s distant or soon?
I’ve lived nineteen years, going on twenty. So young, and often much younger than I should be. And yet those years, these days, they crawl by like an eternity, and they’ve never changed in form, not really. The world is still a distant thing, and I am still… what I am: The person who walks on the path before me. And it’s still a circular one.
My brother sees this. He sees us all going in circles, ducking our heads, diving into whatever we can to hide. He wants it to change. He wants it to change — but he doesn’t want to change it. None of us do. It would be like organizing a junkyard… while being attacked by a pack of wild dogs. Nobody wants to take that on. Especially when the thing we’re taking on, is the nothingness of never taking anything on. Someone has to start. But each of us vows, it won’t be us.
Why do I grasp
Harder onto what kills me?
Why do I hold
Tight when I should let go?
What if I ask
For and receive mercy?
But what if all’s told,
And the answer is no?
I sometimes long for older times,
Where it’s not the norm to be insane;
Where we still strive for something more
And our problems have not yet been embraced.
I suppose exaggeration in some form
Is mine — in this, and everything
But our years seem so dull and worn
And if our lot is to cast blame,
I name these years the culprit king.
Whether a want of love —
Or a want of pain —
Or just a want of anything,
Somehow these days don’t seem the same
As the tameless time of which we dream.
So still I wish for older times;
For challenges I can face.
Perhaps to fail, at least to try —
But something different than this place.
I have no dearest friends;
I’ve got no darling love.
Oh I was sent from somewhere,
But I don’t think it was above.
See, I know my only future;
And I am my only seer.
You might tell me I can change me,
But that means nothing here.
All I know is silence;
All I know is endless time.
If the only change is violence,
Then I guess the violence will be mine.
Waking hours ever waning
My life continues on unchanging
A spell cast in the mind becomes
Nothing more than the words I’m still not saying.
What if I just, turned it around
And walked out the door
And spoke my mind
And was myself?
What if I breathed in and out
And didn’t feel the growing shout
But only had to whisper
And I would make myself heard somehow?
What if I laid aside the shovel
And started messing with the rope,
And for once, I chose to climb higher,
Instead of always rolling down the slope?
I don’t want to see the sun;
For then I’ll have to watch it set.
And I don’t want to climb the mountain;
Because I’m not ready to slip down just yet.
I don’t want to see the sky;
Because then I’ll realize I’m still here.
And I don’t want to choose to live or die;
Because I exist somewhere between, in fear.
I don’t want to spread my wings:
For feathers are a gentle down;
And if I fall I shan’t recall
Why first I sought out such a gown.
The words I’ve said time and again:
The white lies, the quick escape.
I say that it will end — but when?
What change comes that I would even take?
What spoken mantras become truth
When spoken only as a tune,
To leave and lie and say, “forsooth,
I’ve done all I can, now change comes soon”?
But change rarely comes to those who wish it:
Only those who seek, shall find;
And if there’s a price, could the Dreamer pay it?
Or will the newborn Seeker only lose his mind?
Writer In Retrospect 