The first time I considered writing
Poetry, I stared at a blank page for an hour.
Words and phrases and emotions came, after
Some time, but I wrote what only a
Fourteen-year-old punk could write:
Something about being angry or
About being sad. Something about how
My life was falling apart, or spinning out
Of control, but never about loving
My family, my Mom and Dad.
It seems contrived, really, but
I spoke the honest-to-God truth (God forbid
I hold anything back!). My world was falling
Apart, in a way, just as my entire family
Tried, to no avail, no use, no use,
To console me. To console each
Other. We were close, but not close enough.
We were strong, but not strong enough. This
Persisted, it grew and ebbed and flowed
And waxed and waned throughout
The years. I grew harder, I grew
Smarter; I worked on growing my muscles
And my brains, but something inside remained,
Something I could neither predict nor
Explain. It was a certain feeling,
An intimation, a dull, throbbing,
And persistent pain, like I had been hit
Hard enough for the impact to resonate, echo
Throughout my entire body and mind
For the next few years. I was
Drained by it, constantly. No
Amount of writing, no amount of music
Or training, or thinking, or philosophizing
Or psychologizing allowed me
To let go of this pain and move
Beyond this era of my life.
To this day, the cutest things in life bring
Tears to my eyes and choke me up in the
Worst kind of way. The most
Loving things and people and
Genuine expressions of kindness
Force me into a state of intense and pervasive
Melancholy and despondency, dejectedness.
I've never been sure of why. Not
Even now as I write my thoughts,
My honest-to-God feelings from
My honest-to-God heart, do I understand
How I became this way, why I became a
Wonderful and terrible mix of
Hardened shell and pliable, soft,
Supple feelings, intense emotions.
A curious kitten lying on a windowsill
Mewing at the world with curious and lively
Eyes, or a chickadee hopping through
The grass and bushes, chirping
At her family. It all brings tears
To my eyes. Perhaps it is nature that inspires
Me and my feelings. Perhaps family pulls at
My supple heartstrings. I am yet unsure,
And I wish only to live in a somewhat
Softer world. I stare with derision
At soft and supple people: My peers with their
Idealistic notions of life and people and the world.
We all know it could never happen, I
Choose only not to delude myself into
A false belief that the world is a soft
Place. My only hope is that one day, I can begin
A family of my own, leave the race, the brutality
Of the world, and live a quiet life in a
Quiet place where my thoughts and
Family and I can be. It must exist,
For some have found it. And not all are meant
For it. But I cannot help but wish I could spend
More days appreciating beauty
Instead of wishing it away.
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