"When I am writing, I am trying to find out who I am…" –Maya Angelou
For many moments I sat waiting,
So adept at standing still;
So certain all worth chasing
Boiled down to just some time to kill.
But all I’ve lived was just prefacing,
Life a writer with a lethargic quill;
Maybe we’re on to demonstrating
That even characters can have a will.
A soul is such a funny thing,
Slipping further and further away
Every time that you choose not to cling
To every moment of today.
I can’t always wait for freedom
As I’m tightening my chains
Or call for allies to remove them
When my list of foes has all the names
It’s up to me to hoard the bobby pins,
To find the key to ease my pains;
It’s up to me to unlock prisons,
And remember there are sunny days.
How far shall I push myself
Just to feel like I’m awake?
I’ve still left so much upon the shelf…
Is that wisdom, or a grand mistake?
I want to feel like it is over
And I have won it all at last;
But much like finding four leaf clovers,
No luck comes until the work is passed.
My heart is hardened — is it beating? —
Is it deaf and dumb and dead?
It only beats when I tell it “no,”
Only speaks when “hush” is said.
It’s only living when in mortal fear,
It only answers between fight or fled;
But does it ever wake or wish or whimper,
Or has it merely watched as wounds have bled?
I want to have a sea foam house,
Just a walk down from the beach:
A decor of shells and ocean air;
Sand in corners that I never reach.
I want to have a summer home
In a place where winters wander long:
Forget about the burning sun;
Forget the haze that’s rarely gone.
I want to have a place my own,
Where the rules are mine to make;
Where the experiences go beyond the door,
And none of the truths inside are fake.
I want to have my sea foam house;
I want my peaceful beach.
I want to know I have my place;
And that who I am is never out of reach.
It’s not an act of self-destruction;
It’s the active choice to mind
The things that I’ve set for myself,
Even when it’s easier to let them slide.
It’s not a tumble down an endless hill,
For me to be gripping on so tight;
Sometimes, staying up to get things done
Is what gets me through the night.
***
Still need sleep though — alas…
I don’t want to be easy…
But I don’t want to be cruel.
How to be what I need to be,
When I don’t know what I need to be at all?
I don’t want to be weak…
But I can feel myself trembling.
Curse my unsteady heart!
And curse conflicted logic, that darned uncertain thing!
Because I don’t want to be foolish;
But I’m not sure which is not:
To be alone forever,
Or to take the chances that always may be fraught?
What became of us I do not know.
Were we buried beneath the dirt, or snow?
Did we drown beneath the waves so low,
We thought there was noplace underneath to go?
Did we walk the walk right off a cliff?
Did we stay still until the ground would shift?
Did we our spirits try to lift,
Only to fall, or remain adrift?
Did we try to fix the dissonance
With a simple shift of countenance,
Believing that a road paved with pretense
Might be the path to happiness?
Did we wave as the real thing passed us by,
Seeing only a stranger in our eye,
But wondering still if we should stop and lie
And talk about the weather with a sigh?
I suppose we just walked on instead,
Admiring roses black instead of red,
Not bothering to note where this road always led.
Perhaps that is why we lie here dead.
It’ll change when I change it
It won’t change before
I can blame them forever
But it’ll only hurt more
I can watch and can wait
And can slip in that way
Where the harder you grip
You fall further away
I can call out the kettle
Or I can be my own pot
But in the end I must choose,
Whether I want to or not.
