Saturday, February 20, 2010

Old things

I tend to keep some items around for a very long time. Not many things, and not even things that have any kind of value, just random objects. Like my black coat. I've had it for over a decade now, but I rarely wear it. I have nicer coats and now a warmer climate, so it doesn't get a lot of use. I wore it the other day and it had something in the pocket. I took it out, some small papers from a public notepad. On those little pieces of paper was a poem I'd written when I was first in college, so between 9 and 10 years ago. I was very into free verse at the time. Here is that poem.

... theatrical farce.

Crossroads, with map, directions, and no fuel.
Got up when I fell down, hit my head and was knocked unconscious.
There is no such thing as my turn.
I resent work when it is tough because of stress and when it is easy because it is unfulfilling
and then I go home alone to be happy in my independence.
Glad to be lonely because then I'm the only one whining.

Worse, lovers, friends,
And I get lost in this drive to be successful
And this is not about me.
I cry because 30,000+ people commit suicide every year
because people too weak to go forward were trampled by those too busy to look back
Or people who didn't die and won't live
and you tell me the other option.

We created this culture
just like the guns that kill us
and the pollution that kills us
and the drugs that kill us
and I'm not saying that our culture kills us.
Lobotomy patients still have heartbeats.

I reject this culture.
I am not a revolutionary or a commentary or a tributary or a sanctuary
So is everyone else!
So care!
Care about death and work and love and hope and courage and ambition and dreams!
You don't have to believe in people, just believe they're worth it.
And you tell me the other option.


  1. I wish my old poems made sense. I still feel this way every day. I keep wondering when I'll grow out of this mental block and just fit in like I'm supposed to.

  2. I agree with "Anonymous" who I assume is Steph. I got out my folder of old poems and stories the other day. It's all trash. This is good.

  3. Nope, I was not the anonymous poster. My poetry has never made sense. Writing never makes sense to me, either. :)
    The real Steph