This is a short poem that was written to set a few things free. This was written on a white screen that was blank in the beginning with a white glow shining on my face and reflection in my eyes.
This was begun before the sun or before the hours when my alarm clock songs; but more importantly, this was written with the intention to purge the soul.
We’ve held on for so long that we’ve forgotten what it means to let go yet
our grip is the only thing we know about.
But . . .
There was a time before. There was a beginning.
There were the days of firsts, like say, a time when you walked through a doorway and smiled at someone who came along to change your life.
In the beginning remains our youth.
In the beginning are the times before our memories of injustice
– or status
In the beginning remains the hopes and dreams,
the beliefs and the things that make youth
exactly what it’s supposed to be
In the beginning
I was me and you were you,
without disguise, no decoration
no obligation to perform
or “act’ as if –
As if the world cared or paid attention
As if our insecurity was so important
that people noticed
or pointed and said “hey, look at them.”
In the beginning are the moments before the mishaps
or disappointments, to which we have them,
and to which we feel them, so deeply
and so incessantly that we refuse to let them go –
because, of course, if we let down our guard
or if we share a moment of excitement
or feel a semblance of hope
what happens if we don’t get our way?
See, this is why the child cries.
This is why the babies are plugged by a pacifier
This is whey we seek the external to solve internal riddles
to correct internal dilemma by the use of an external source.
This is why we fail to comparisons
This is where we change
and this is why our moments from before are hard to look upon –
to see us as we were,
young and truly hopeful yet
the sting from the whip
cracks when reality shows its face
and says something like, “no, not this time kid.”
sorry –
So, what about hope?
What about life?
What about the need to just be?
to just sit somewhere
to be in a perfect atmosphere of silence
to be at ease, at peace,
in perfect company, regardless of who’s around me
There’s no need to keep up
or compete
or to prove one’s self.
At late night episodes of wonder and hope,
I stare at a large white screen.
I prepare myself to talk to you
or, more accurately, to share my notes from the heart
which talk about my future.
I think about this, about you,
about the person I’ve been all of my life
as opposed to the person I’m looking to become.
I think about the way I write
and about this “thing” of mine,
which I choose to call my trick,
which I have been working on for quite some time
and yet, I’m afraid to show it.
I’m afraid to share this.
I’m afraid to be excited
because what happens after the hours of rehearsal
what happens when we go live on stage?
What happens if I skip a beat or miss a cue?
By the way-
No one believes me when I tell them how afraid I am.
No one gets it when I explain about my panic attacks
or how the anxiety hits right before I go “on.”
No one believes me when I say:
I’m afraid of people. I’m afraid of crowds.
I’m afraid of their reactions
or, better yet, I’m afraid of the lack thereof.
I’m afraid yet here I am, telling my secrets.
Here I am, telling the entire world:
I’m not tough
I’m weak
I’m afraid to say this but
I still have the remnants of childhood catastrophes,
which led me to the fears that say “hey, someone wants to hurt you.”
No one would believe what’s in my head and
I tell everyone about this yet
they say it’s not true
because if it were, I’d be too afraid to say so.
So, I come here to say so.
To tell you.
To find this place
where you and I can sit and for the moment
I don’t have to be a man or tough.
I can just be me.
It is amazing how little people know about their own beauty.
It’s more amazing how blind we can be about our own abilities.
Then again, I suppose it is hard to shake the irrational blindfolds.
Then again, I think we’ve worn them for so long
we wouldn’t know what to do if we took them off.
This is me
This is my art
You are my canvas
and the words I use
are the brush strokes and colors
to represent all of the seasons in my life.
Sometimes, the weather is warm
Sometimes, the sun shines
Sometimes, it’s cold
Sometimes, the sky is gray
But each time (by any means necessary)
my feet have to touch the ground,
so I can stand up.
There is no more reasoning with the unreasonable.
There are no more false entries
There are no more reasons to pretend
or act
or to try and impress people.
At least, not anymore.
I swear though,
there’s something about a moment of realization –
the spirit rises to a better level of consciousness.
I am aware.
I’m ready.
I’m alive and I’m well.
I am rushed. I am tired.
I am working, hard as hell.
Then again, I suppose this is the motivation behind my poems
– To open the cage each morning
– To let the bird go free
. . . and hope that she returns by nightfall
The Written Addiction 