I do not know where I am from.
One-hundred and forty-seven hours of contemplation,
Yet still I am stuck in a strange situation.
Am I from the gold corn stocks
that build a wall around me?
Their weeping silk threads caught around my fingers, and
that strange fresh dirt smell that always lingers
in the depths of my sweater.
Am I from the constellations painted on my cheeks?
Their upsetting color like paint
splattered on a canvas in uneven spirals;
claiming rule over my pale round face.
Am I from John Lennon?
His weeping Guitar and yellow sunshine
shining into me in sweet melodic tunes.
Am I from Atlantic, Iowa?
Home of the trojans and simple
minded people who are yet to accept
Individuality.
Am I from a hateful world where black and white
Is the only thing we ever see?
Where body parts are to pave the path of one's
Destination.
Am I from a nation,
whose officials pledge vacation,
while those in need sit hungry, brazen, on the streets?
Where the only thing they feel is the hate
they’ve been tasting?


No.

I am from drawing patterns on the fogged over
emerald-tinted window glass.
From the shiny grey floor of a retro skate rink.
From the laces of black converse shoes; torn and *****.
I am from laughing as loud as I can
at midnight, 1am, two thirty.
But most of all,
I am from soul.
And from the one hundred classic rock songs we always sung.
I am from youth and aspiration.
I am from smoke curling through my hair.
And I...
I am from the chalk dust,
settled rosy pink in my lungs.