What it meant to me
was what the branch means to the cardinal,
was what the pencil means to the poet,
might have been how the sky storms
to someone sitting on a window bench with
eyes seeking something solid, something sold.

What it meant to them
was a history of books that aren’t yellowed with age,
was the Sudoku puzzles in the newspaper only grandmothers use,
it could have been what ramen meant to a college kid who’s two meals a day
consist of sodium and carbohydrates, who’s eyes bend down, but they’re not allowed
to look away from something crucial. It made them gag.

What it meant was
we’re living in a cage and college debt (1.5 Trillion) is only one of the bars to freedom in a country renowned for liberty. That’s too expensive, but not for war.

What it meant was
I’m in the middle of my personally gifted depression and anxiety and my friends say,
“We all grew up with parents like that, we all got ******,”
and she was right. I don’t know someone who hasn’t dealt with
what this world’s handed us on a silver plastic platter.

Can you tell me after all these years
how we’re to cope? There aren’t enough therapists. There isn’t enough trust between our minds and our beliefs. (Ex: Do I deserve help? No.)

What it meant to me
was the words I couldn’t say, out loud or in my head,
was the crossword puzzles, titled “Emotions”,
might have been reading the news and
finding there’s another empty seat in a class I’m not in.

Do you want a pretty ending?
Maybe it’ll happen, maybe it won’t,
I’m not here to tell you how to live your life.
We’re not given much choice in too many matters,
but the cardinals are resting on their branch and
the pencil is tucked between my fingers,
and every storm ends to begin again.