My thoughts come to me differently.
They find me in the form of riddles
And the form of prose.
Both of which I must pull apart
And study each piece separately
Before I can finally be sure of their meaning.
As if I am 16 again,
Sitting in my high school English class
Debating the meaning of a newly introduced piece of literature,
The only student in the room
Who truly cared
If the author colored the curtain blue
Due to an emotional turmoil he faced
Or simply because he fancied the color.
Because studying the work of literature greats
Who have long since passed from this world
Offers me the smallest sliver of hope
That I might be able decode my own turmoils
And be able to truly face them
Instead of running and hiding
When my mind once again becomes a whirlwind of unintelligible monstrosities
Made of my deeply hidden fears
And hopes that I can’t bear to look at in the light of day.