I walk through life with open arms,
Catching all the rage, and anger and pain.
I don’t try to block emotions that are true,
It’s just something that I’ve always seemed to do.
I might seem quiet or shy,
Well not shy, but closed.
Shielding my own emotions,
That I don’t want others to know.
I’m a blank book.
I want answers and words
I crave emotions and purpose.
I strive to be heard.
I have so much to say,
But I don’t want to be judged
Because of silly questions,
Seemingly misguided pretensions.
I just want to learn.
I want to know you
How you feel.
How you think.
If as a baby you were washed in the sink.
These things might seem venial to you,
But emotions and experience,
They are what you always know to be true.
Even what’s in books I do not believe.
Yeah, sure I might surfacely perceive.
But knowing and believing are two very different things.
There’s knowledge and information.
Theres feeling and soul.
Theres what you learn in school,
But that kind of knowledge is not my goal.
Temporary fulfillment and satisfaction,
From praise and worldly choice of action.
But that’s not what I want.
Not truly what I crave.
I want something substantial,
Something personal with age.
I might write poems about death and fear
Or love and power, a glistening tear.
And sometimes I admit,
They are just words,
And sometimes my poems are rather absurd,
But for the most part,
I write about how I am feeling,
About life’s complications,
And how I am dealing.
I might come off as gleaming and happy
When inside I’m enraged.
Or insincere,
When my feelings can’t be described by words on a page.
I might seem angry when really I’m scared.
Facadely confident, but really disbelieving and bare.
Embarrassed when inside I’m just shy.
Inspired when I’m really bone dry.
Enthralled when I’m extremely appalled.
To seem so knowing,
When inside I am lost,
Sometimes I can’t even translate my own thoughts.
Awkward because I’m showing you me,
And that’s someone who I’m petrified for you to see.
I’m shaking right now, because I’m so struck with emotion,
I love writing and speaking and poetry in motion.
And I’m honestly sick of superficial devotion.
What does it matter?
All those words written down,
When there’s no feeling inside in which to drown.
I could get up here and speak for hours about whatever you want,
But I’d be empty and you’d be bored with my personally unconnected front.
Okay, fine.
Fake tears.
A sigh inserted.
Personification of... whatever.
It doesn’t matter.
Well written but lacking emotion.
In all sincerity, if this is why you write,
Stop.
In the end It doesn’t matter.
You’ll end up published, maybe,
In some periodicals or maybe even have your own book.
That’s all great.
But where does that leave you?
Empty. Unsatisfied. Void of purpose.
I want to leave my mark on more than just the surface.
I yearn to get inside your head,
Make you think when you can’t sleep,
And tossing in bed.
I’m beginning to see the worthlessness in worldly gratification
And though I might still write for fun and meaningless narration,
Those are not the works I wish to share,
They’re simply just there.
Stolid in meaning and interpretation
Entertainment and trivial exaggeration.
Out of all the poems I have written thru now,
This is most me, still closed, but seemingly loud.
I hope I’ve made you think,
And I hope I’ve made you question,
And if I have not, I’ve hopelessly failed my own pretension.