did you expect my flowers
to bloom among you?
what could grow on your dry land?
Sometimes, change is easy
It feels like trying on a new pair of shoes from a favorite department store
If the change feels good and fits, you move forward
You wear change like a badge of honor, a personal achievement
Then, feeling accomplished and joyful, with your chin raised a little higher, you let change enrich your spirit, a necessary transfusion to the soul
Sometimes, change is ugly
It feels like sticking bare feet into a thick mud and wondering why there is resistance
You swing wildly at the fear, as if there was actually someone there
The possibility of change turns you into the victim and the aggressor, fighting tooth and nail to protect the now
Then, spent and weary, when your defenses are low, you let change break through, like water overflowing a dam
There is a water bottle
on the side of route 3.
It's blue and it's plastic
and it's ***** and old.
Reusable, but unused.
Just a piece of garbage
lying on the side of the road.
I look at that water bottle every day.
I take comfort in knowing it's there.
Through every season of
the last year and a half it
has remained in the same spot.
Sun beating down on it,
leaves gathered around,
covered in snow,
it stays where it began.
Whatever music I'm listening to,
whatever emotions I'm feeling,
through elation from a grade
or depression from a breakup,
the water bottle is there.
What a concept,
what a constant,
what a weird thing to notice
on the side of the road.
But there it is every day,
a ***** blue water bottle,
but such a big part
of my daily routine.
They tell you to be yourself
But they also tell you to have perfect grades
Have perfect manners
And to simply be perfect
Now if that is far from being myself
What is being myself?
Where are the late night painters and poets and dreamers
The 24 hour coffee shops with chipped saucers and street musicians and black and white photo opportunities
The 3:07 am philosophers and talkers and ******* this and **** that "I aint' workin' for the man" protest fighters
Where are the push back the day
I'm not finished with the night
Loners and monsters and strangers
Because normal isn't working and humans are disgusting
So I would rather walk alone
Than be part of a population wearing blinders pretending nothings wrong with living in a world that isn't safe for our sisters and our brothers sitting on the wrong side of a broken justice system
Its safer on the streets for rapists and murders
Than a girl in a short skirt or a man born with dark skin
Where are the architects of love and the masons of kindness and the engineers of empathy
Who's gonna save us when heaven turns out to be empty
And there's no one there to wash away the blood off our hands for our crimes and sins against humanity
Without the late night painters and poets and dreamers
The 24 hour coffee shops become ghost towns and the world crumbles
And the only thing beautiful for humanity to do is give itself to death