"When I am writing, I am trying to find out who I am…" –Maya Angelou
My world’s too small for wonder;
My heart used too little to be fond.
My competence too acquainted with every blunder
To believe “it’s not me — I’ve been wronged!”
My brain’s too caught up in matters gray
To make up its mind what’s right and wrong;
But still my despair won’t get its way
Be it because I’m weak, or strong.
I wish I’d wisen to the words
That I ought to say to you;
Your every misstep hurts,
Yet I leave you to fetch the glue.
I know there’s not a thing on earth
To which I won’t disagree;
But prudent is not the worst of things
That you might try to be.
You blunder around blindly;
I’ve the vision of a bat.
I might help if I was trying —
But what could be worse than that?
What’s begun must find its end
However long you play pretend
And all that comes to find you since
Is inevitably the consequence
What makes you most anxious?
It seems so easy when I sit alone
But then the real thing’s there
And I tremble and I worry
No one really cares
About the things that drive me nervous
And if I’m being honest, no one really should
Mischosen words clumsily spoken
First impressions gone way wrong
Every compliment paid me must be token
Every smile must be while wondering, “how long?”
But somewhere, someone feels the same of me
Wondering what I care about
While their “not good enough” is good enough for me
So what am I so scared about?
Right and wrong is clear no longer
We’re guilty, every one
We snap and bite our silver tongues
And hurt each other just for fun.
I once stepped beyond the pale
To find out what I missed;
It only was a different veil
Of the same hellish mist.
Missteps made half purposefully
Brought horror to them all;
Yet still the only path I see
Going forward, is to fall.
It is my duty:
To be fair,
To be kind;
For me to care,
And be willfully blind.
Not my place
To look beyond;
To step beyond,
And be a child.
Not my place to be wronged,
To be unknowing in the wild.
My responsibility
The world has gently shaped:
I am watching,
I am waiting;
My missteps will lead to hating:
And so the path, then, to negating,
Is simply not to move at all.
You think I’ll live and die alone
But I already have
You think I’ll never reach the world again
That doesn’t sound so bad
You think I’m capable of more
I think you’re more than wrong
Every test that’s come my way
Has disappointedly gone
You think to get me into shape
With a stencil and a knife
Well I truly am sorry, dear
But this is my life.
Where is the wonder that she used to know?
That little girl, where did she go?
The one with her friends outside in the snow,
When having to leave was her only woe?
She went to the future and she stayed at home,
Trying to find the light in the gloam.
But time got up and went off to roam;
When next she looked up, she was alone.
Now, she is haunted by all that should be;
And all that she wanted she knows won’t come free.
What’s to believe in, and what’s there to see,
When all that’s around you is your life’s debris?
I’m supposed to make an effort
Be friendly, it’s just fine
How dandy for the experts
I couldn’t trust a cup of wine
I’m supposed to make an effort
Accept mistakes, cast out a line
Trust that life won’t leave you desert
In the end it will just leave you brine
I’m not supposed to make an effort
People use each other all the time
And that doesn’t give much comfort
But what if comfort’s only lying?
Writer In Retrospect 