I am one to have my emotions under control.

Seventeen years of maneuvering around other’s
Peculiar mood swings
Taught me how to ignore
The chaos of human sentiment.
And so my features remain stoic since.

I have learned how to channel the anxiety
Manifesting itself in a jittery leg, shortness of breath,
And a discordant mind.
It is possible– Quite easy, actually–
To translate a torrent of worry
Into potential energy.

Three years in a closet
Is time enough to collect many pretty dresses
And forget there is ugliness in the world.
As much as I preach the virtue of honesty,
Lying has become second nature,
If only to keep these shark-infested waters
Calm for one more day.

I ought to be devoid of sentiment by now,
As much of a shell as that detestable Louisa Bounderby.
However, I recently found myself mistaken;
I am not a product of Utilitarianism.

Recently, I’ve been feeling–
Oddly ill.
With a loss of appetite,
A churning stomach herbal tea cannot alleviate,
Difficulty sleeping,
And a racing heartbeat.
These symptoms are purely somatic
And therefore, quite frustrating.

I met a girl last week;
I wonder if I caught it from her.

If I am to dig graves for the rest of my life
I wish to do it with my hair long and proud,
Swinging at the small of my back as a testament of
Will in the face of adversity,
Grown by the fruits of my labor.
I want to harvest the nectar
From the pear tree on my horizon
And when I eat my fill,
I will just as easily leave the sweetness behind,
Before it spoils and then,
I will look the hurricane in the eye and laugh,
Because I know it will baptize the earth
And my pear tree will be waiting for the day
This nomad returns to her roots.

If I am to choose between
A false lover and Uncertainty in the North
I want to have the gall to say,
“Brother, come at eight.”
I want to have the self-control
To lower the gun on a man,
Whose mind is a dank closet full of spiders.
By then, I must be ready to venture out,
And risk this Uncertainty in the North.

If I am to take my revenge,
I wish to do so without collateral damage,
And if I do,
I want everyone to learn that revenge
Will stab you with your own rapier
And that I am the kind of person,
Who will make you drink your own wine,
Because, in the end,
We are all sinners.

If I am to write propaganda to support
A nauseating turn of society,
I would rather be exiled.
Iceland, Siberia, The Ministry of Love:
They are all the same,
Because I will come out a different person
For better or for worse.

I wish to have the strength to cut my hair
Because I will not hesitate
To cut ties with anyone,
Who stands in the way of my passion.
I must be unorthodox
If I see my fellow men
Following in each other’s footsteps, with their eyes closed.
I will scream it in the streets,
“The world is not pretty.”

If I am to be unorthodox,
I wish to have faith,
Strong enough not to be undone by mere chance,
Strong enough so I can watch the coin fall:
Heads.
Heads.
Heads.
Accepting that I will one day die.
And if it involves a ship,
I will be its captain.

Now is not a time for frivolous, trivial journals
About days and hours and minutes
And the events they have touched,
The things boiling, lively
Within them.

This is not a journal for things,
Short-lived sighs of our material world;
The rushing, rushing by of life,
But without the nostalgia of a train
Ride separating lovers
Two toiling tracks at a time–
Bolt– Track

Or, even the allure of a subway car,
Gliding through its veins beneath
Tarred skin, glass hair and satellite eyes.

The train disappears,
Growling itself to sleep in its tunnels,
Leaving the body on the tracks,
Few feet shy of the
Commandment line screaming, begging
You, “DO NOT CROSS”

Yes, you’ve got it now,
The experience, the things must be made,
Forged by the broken and bruised hands
Of the ****** and the lost into thoughts
So that the body swept away and coddled in the man-made night
May learn,

Even if infinity has passed,
It cannot be too late or the saints would be out of a job and
The earth drained
Of all redemption.