I was listening to music and watching videos about art when I wished I had the artistic ability to draw what I felt. Something like a balloon surrounded by cacti. Or a dark room pierced by pinpricks of blinding light. Then I remembered the art of written words: poetry. So I wrote this about relaxing on a hammock and having that peace incessantly interrupted by my parents and intruding thoughts of the past ending in my current struggle of finding my home.
April 8, 2020
Moments imagined, savored, and soothing
I forge, however flitting and farce it seems-
‘till two tutting awkward quavering people
appear to gawk, talk, and cluck.
Face away, face away
feel the wind whisper “freedom”
and you stay and you stay
within the heart of the storm.
Silence your mind, open your shut eyes
find your way, back to reality someday.
Feel your bones and body ache, but
fight the urge to fly.
Tap! At the window or the door?
No, just the windows of my soul
trepid finger positioned recklessly–
tauntingly by my cheek.
I can’t even squeak.
Taut smile, roll over–
Bump! Triumphant, thoughtless thumps
from that rump.
Wrapped in flimsy threads
Oh, remember being told you need meds?
Remember reaching out?
Then being told only a professional could clear your doubts.
I am not in that dark room
there are not tears streaming down my face
there is no nasty text screaming at me.
It’s always been me.
I’m here, but should I be?
Doesn’t feel like me…
Just let me go.
Let me frown and let me drown.
Because the air you use–
now all Co2–
turns me blue.
Please don’t stray!
I know I have no say…
and this to them is play
just, please tell me-
Should I stay?
Picture was likely taken by my cousin. You can see a 14 year old me in the bottom right.