7/23/2014

the plane rolls over the california mountains

we pass over homes,
and stores,
and jails

we pass over the bars,
where bitter old men go
to remind them of their sorrows

we pass the *******,
where 20 year old men go
to feel like lions

we pass the cloudy river,
where a man sits fishing for not fish,
but love

we pass the jail,
where a ***** woman sits
and prays for heaven to take her

we pass the hills,
where couples go to ****
and die

we pass the roads,
full of insensitive men,
crying women,
vomiting kids,
and clueless elders

we pass the land
which has witnessed the
genocide of a people

we pass over a thousand murderers,
and a thousand molesters,
and a thousand arsonists,
and a thousand lunatics

we pass over a land
founded on the color of white

and *** we pass over this hell,
I look towards the man on my left

a 40 something year old
business man,
reading a mag,
drinking a coke,
and sipping up his cluelessness

then there are the people behind me
indian
2 women, and a child
a mother,
daughter,
and grandchild
who must know all too well
how much of a hell we're in,
but they do not bite their thumb

for maybe this is meant to be,
maybe there is no way to escape this,
maybe there *is no way to fix this

yet,
I do bite my tongue at the world
I do bite my tongue at humanity,
at society,
at love,
at loneliness

yes,
I bite my tongue at people

but as we pass above the clouds,
and hell slowly vanishes
beneath a film of illusion,
my thoughts do vanish,
and I no longer
am reminded of hell

© 2014 Rembrin Hawke

Things are starting to look up a bit.
Or rather,
I'm,
starting to look up a bit.

Things are still bad,
there's no changing that.

But I'm beginning to realize that not all the world is filled with such chaos.

I mean,
I suppose I've always believed that there was good out there.
But I've never truly believed that there was good here.
In this town,
in these walls,
in me.

However,
now I see that I've got potential.

But that's it.
For now.
Potential.

I just,
I want,
so badly,
to paint like Millais.

I want,
so badly,
to write like Sylvia Plath.

I want,
so badly,
to be ever so determined and inspired as Darwin.

I want,
so badly,
to sing and dance across the stage like Hayworth and Astaire.

But alas,
I can do none of those things.

I am just a girl.
Nothing special.
Least not to anyone else.

I cannot paint,
or dance,
or sing.

But I can live,
and breathe,
and write!

Though maybe no good at all,
by God,
I will write.

For nothing stirs my soul like the dragging of my pen across the page.
And by God nothing stirs my soul like the heat of those stage lights,
and 50 eyes upon me.

I may not be who I dream to be,
but ******,
I will continue to be,
until the stars pluck me from this Earth and dance with me.

Until my feet are lifted off the ground,
and I'm carried on clouds to Jupiter,
or Venus,
or Saturn.

And there,
there,
I shall sing with Cobain and Strummer.

And I shall laugh with Monroe and Hepburn.

And I shall write with Bukowski and Thompson.

And I shall dance with Charisse and Gene Kelly.

And I shall dine with a thousand queens,
and lay in the silkiest of sheets!

But until then,
I shall simply live.

I shall live a life devoted to words,
and I promise to write whenever inspired,
and dance whenever music plays,
and sing as loudly as I please,
simply because I can.

And I promise to be kind to the universe,
and I promise to never promptly believe unknown truths.

And above all,
I promise to live.
And breathe.
And be.

Because,
well.
The universe does indeed have plans for me.

© 2014 Rembrin Hawke