"When I am writing, I am trying to find out who I am…" –Maya Angelou
I can tell what you really feel:
The only pride I’ll really claim
Is in the capacity to hear a joke,
And hear a heartbeat in its punchline.
Oh, I know it does no good
Listening to languages unknown:
My translation tells me one thing;
To them, it’s overblown.
But I can feel the deeper meaning,
And I can’t unfeel the pain;
How can I be glad of my existence,
When I know that you don’t feel the same?
Pain will find its moment
And that moment then will pass
Few like meeting their torment
Fewer meet torment that will last.
My mind cannot be read
Nor can tears that went unshed
Be wiped away
There is only what you say
In all its destructive glory
And all the words you bury
Are your burden alone.
All I see from both is spite,
Rent heartstrings being favored
As each victim stands there holding knives,
Every truth so gladly cut asunder
In the madness that ensues;
And it seems as if the roll of dice
Is the only way to choose.
I have seen my life through others’ eyes
And they proclaimed it hell
My heart was spurred to try to rise
Now I leave it where it fell
There are chances better left untouched
Leaps that lead to the abyss
I once thought my saving could be rushed
Now I’m left with only this.
Some part of me believes
I am the rose beneath the glass
An audience to please
But any touch would be the last
My fragility, exaggerated
Or so some part of me believes
Yet how many petals have disintegrated
Watching how everybody leaves?
The world is full of threads all interwoven
The world is full of stories intertwined
The world is full of people broken
And those pretending not to mind
The world is filled with dreams awoken
And nightmares shared and shared in kind
The world is filled with people choking
On what others meant to leave behind
The world is tied with strings unbidden
The world is chained on either side
We vainly cut and burn and begin
To see our souls can never be untied.
All I have is window shopping:
Refuge of the inane.
I can stare in hope and wonder;
All I’ll have to show for it is pane.
Ever the same,
The days that drag on.
There’s anger and pain;
Love’s all that’s gone.
What is there to live for?
Ever the same,
The hours tick by.
What’s here that’s sane?
All I can do is cry,
But I don’t know who to cry for.
Ever the same,
The minutes say goodbye.
They say such things are tame;
But it takes only a minute to die,
So much longer to find something to die for.
Ever the same,
The seconds don’t ask why;
They never ask your name —
Only that you do not lie
When you face the choice that you’ve been waiting for.
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.
Writer In Retrospect 