I ran there today
in one of those moments of euphoric need.
I wanted to see the view they told me was so appealing.
I ran there today,
and even though I was accompanied by several strangers,
they were invisible to my eye,
so the lake’s peaceful atmosphere wouldn’t escape me
as sweet classical music whispered melodies in my ear,
a solitary canoe sent soft ripples from its path,
and eyes locked on a view framed by the most beautiful mess of weeds
on top of the hill where I stood.

“This was so much prettier last year.
They need to mow this whole hillside.”

I guess those melodies weren’t whispering loud enough
if I could hear an invisible stranger’s voice.

I loved those weeds.

You know when you see a cluster of friends together
and just by looking at them,
you know that they each have a sense of belonging in that group?
I don’t remember what that feels like.
There are pieces of me that fit into separate puzzles,
but I have not found the one that rounds with each curve
and shifts with each edge so perfectly that I am secure.
So when I look at these weeds,
I understand them,
and even though they are spiritless beings,
I can relate to them in a way I have never related
to someone of my own kind.

I am not a gentle flower
that must be nurtured to growth and bloom.
I am the white dandelion you picked from a patch of grass as a child
so you could almost effortlessly blow every seed into the wind,
scattering me in so many directions that my personas
fall far from my roots,
no two of them planting close together.
In college
I felt too goody two shoes for the theatre department,
too eccentric for the fitness nerds,
too simple for the city-lovers,
and too urbane for the country.
So,
though you may think these weeds are chaotic
and ugly
and unwanted,
these weeds are life,
and they echo our time here
far better than the flowers or grass you desire.
We are not clean;
We are wild,
confused,
and aching for the love of our onlookers,
when oftentimes we are ignored.

Sometimes
I whisper the words
“I love you”
into absent air
just to remember what it sounds like
coming from my lips.
The silence I hear in reply is a reminder
that my words ricochet off of the walls
and back to me,
bouncing off of my ear’s bass drum
a beat that lets me know I am okay,
but this beat is one that most can’t follow.
You see,
within me are two opposing existences,
both equally me,
but different nonetheless.
I am not emotional,
but I feel all of life’s idiosyncrasies deep within me:
the light that peeks through my blinds as I wake in the morning,
the solitary solidarity of a morning run when the town is still asleep,
the sound of nature’s white noise,
the crunch of autumn leaves and twigs beneath my feet…
I feel these things,
and my heart swells with a sense of liberation with each experience,
though I have not yet been liberated.

We may not be pretty to you.
We may not be cultivated.
You may think we are competing with your ideal aesthetic,
but we are just trying to make it through this tangled life
alive and well,
while the rest of the world attempts to rid itself of us.
Little do you know that we are your backbone.
We are your strength.
We are independence.
We are beautiful.

Don’t mow us away.

There’s tranquility in the way
our star slowly hides itself beneath the horizon
before tucking our hemisphere into bed each night.
I ache for that view sometimes
to an extent that concerns me,
but I still live for its solidarity
alone under a blanketed sky.
Sharing it with anyone else has always
ruined its preciousness,
but tonight
hundreds of humans no different than I
gather along this pier,
unified in our attempt at peace,
quiet among the backdrop of a world
that has become so corrupt with hatred and violence.
For a few moments
I forget about the malice that causes me
to fall to my knees each night,
praying that we find a leader that can help us escape.
We are the cult,
and the pier our sanctuary,
but in this world
that may actually be more safe.
If but a few minutes here can briefly salvage
the hope within us,
I see no reason to walk away
until the sky falls fast asleep,
and I fall quick with serenity.

I’ve spent the greater part of the last decade
nuzzled in a driver’s seat,
fixating on the horizon,
while mellow tunes from my iPod
serenade the muscle in my chest
so that my breathing might stay steady enough
to control my impatience
for just enough time to see beyond this highway.

You see,
I’ve been chasing sunsets for as long as I can remember,
but I still recall the tranquility that rushed over me
the first time my feet touched the ocean floor
with the tide’s white noise silencing my cares
and a rainbow-canvas sky mirrored in sparkling waters
blinding my responsibility.
I’ve never been able to find it again,
because every time I greet the skyline,
I fall short.

There is something missing within me,
a piece of myself I never quite found,
even after the chaos of orchestrating my own
death and rebirth.
I know everyone finds the ocean sunset peaceful,
but there is a key in that fiery heaven
that only fits the crevices to my brain,
and no soul could match its sanctity,
so I will keep running to that shoreline
until I find a sky that can fix what the locksmith broke
and the waves that will put my reeling mind to sleep.

You're hungry for good music with great lyrics.
You're hungry for late night talks.
You're hungry for art and you try
to feel it in every cell of your body.
You're hungry for knowledge.
Philanthropy.
Empathy.
And a bunch of others complicated words.
Oh, and you're hungry for that too,
I mean words,
especially if they are in a
Edgar Allan Poe poem.
You're hungry for little gestures.
You're hungry for true and extremely loud laughs.
You're hungry for history.
You're hungry about a lot of things, but you're
not hungry for love.
Because you already fell for all those stuff
you're hungry for.

2052, 2069 or 2075?
A bottle of Coke everyday
Much earlier perhaps

An accident?
Due to old age?
For sure it'll come so sudden

Ah, I should prepare a list
Of accounts and passwords
For my sister to access

She will have to put a year after '1992 - ',
Update my status to 'deceased'
And respond to the grieving comments too

Brace yourselves for the loving messages
And stories of how amazing I was
That will sure flood from my funeral's guests

They will range from people I hold dear
To people I barely know
And from those who doesn't really care

It will be fun to watch from the sidelines
And a little sad too
To see them desperately hold on to what's gone

I guess that's the joke of life
You'll know its importance once its out of your hands
I guess I'll have fun, while I'm alive

Oh the irony!
I am celebrating my birth
By writing a poem about my death