I used to live here;
in endless contemplation.
Struggling to put into words some profound beauty,
Some ancient wisdom passed down through many lives lived unbeknownst to me.

To be honest I never even sat down to think about my “poems.”

I never stopped to read them before I shared,
a half thought turned to ten lines or a massive revelation turned to two.
I wanted to be a wordsmith and give everything I said a sense of grandeur.

Even now I’m typing without intention;
Without a scheme.
I almost never know what to say...
Regardless of the word *****.
Still wishing I sounded good on paper.

I used to live here;
in endless contemplation.
A bottomless pit of self regression, reflection, redemption

I used to live here;
I still do but I used to as well.

I always thought that I would be somebody,
until I felt like a nobody.

I always thought I’d be somewhere else,
until I started to feel stuck.

I always wished that I’d love someone,
this one I can say is true.

And now no matter where I found myself or who I was then,

I’ll always feel whole with you.

I don’t see myself in the boy too eager to please the others around him.

I don’t see myself in the teen who had been lost to the existential angst of a youthful mind.

Much too fast,
much too fast,
you have so much life to live.  

I now see myself in the mirror and only have faith in my actions.

Not too appeal to you but harness my worth and to finally follow my dreams.

I now see myself in the man I’d begin to be.

I now see myself as happy.

I have a question.

When does the line get drawn?
As in the imaginary law set by society’s hunger for what success is to each individual.

Where does that line get drawn?
Because it seemed like 16, when my mom first said;

“Son, you have to start thinking of your future.”
And so we browsed the colleges.

Regardless there was still much time.

I thought the line had been drawn.
I’m 19,
I’ve now finished a year in college.
Sound recording technology.

I love music but they tell me to pick something realistic.
Something with a better “predicted growth rate”
Something with 401ks and paid holidays.
They begin to draw a line for me...

I’m 23,
I’ve dropped out of college.
I’ve made some music.
I even got some things done.

I still wonder where the line gets drawn,
though I know now better than ever...

I hold the pencil that draws the line.

So...

I drew a smiley face.

Is it not ironic,
                       as children wishing to be grown

Once we’ve racked some age up,
                          we don’t want to be old.

Refraining from writing a lot,
          Afraid of what I’ll say

Not because of what you think,
           It’s the things in the back of my brain.

Things I don’t give a lot of attention,
             Unless I stop a moment to reflect.

Staying away from writing a lot,
          A moment just to breathe.