Isn't is amazing how there are a finite number of words, that try to describe my entire existence. They flow from my hands like honey across computer keys. My life in forty-seven lines.
It, to me, is inconceivable that a text box can contain a person, like a frame might contain a photo. So those words might have flown from my fingers, but they are not me.
I am in my work. Puzzles solved and projects planned, each one has a small part of my self within it's ink-stained pages. My poetry and photography represents me far better than forty-seven lines.
If a university turns me away based on a personal statement, I would not be ashamed. After all, those forty-seven lines are not my words. They belong to convention. 'Interpersonal skills' and 'self-confidence'.
I know those words are not me, although I'll write them because I know they are what you want to see.
This is a poem for the inner trying to get out For yearnings and desperation Surrounded by cardboard furniture we sit With silence And serious expressions Business-like.
Perhaps I will set down a lyric after lyric About the clicking pen Scribbling over paper About due process Convention Eyes avoiding eyes The building of a wall. Our windows all have shutters now We begin to close them
A whispered Bridge the gap Is stifled Pushed away Drowned In proper formality Small talk barely satisfies.
Suits, Mr Smith, Suits. Let us be quirky Oh fellow human clone of mine!
Let us dance!
The format (in the beginning, then I got carried away) was inspired by an excerpt from the introduction to Janet Frame's 'the Goose Bath'.