I was born in a fishbowl
With crystal-clear glass
No one ever told me—
Told me I was watching
Watching from afar

Oh, I was knocking on the glass
But you didn’t hear—
No, you never do
Will I ever stop knocking?

And they say, “It’s just for now,
Just a little longer.”
But I was born in a fishbowl
And I haven’t stopped knocking

The glass is a sphere
It warps my perception
That’s how it was made—
So I see what you want

Oh, I live in a bowl
And I think you put me there
You said it was for a while
But I’m getting too big

Inside is pretty
But outside is new
Outside has you
The water is cold—
I’m sure the air is warm

I think I’m free soon
Because I saw you
I saw you walk in
And you had another fish

It’s my turn now.
I’m leaving soon—
I think I’m leaving soon
Nothing warping my perception.


My turn to feed the fish,
That new one you brought in.
I’ll tell her the water’s clean
Then make the tank smaller.

My palms in my pockets jingle
the keys to my cave as I make
my way to wherever I’m going.
My legs propel me, and my feet
dodge cast-off gum and dog dung.

And on my head rests a fishbowl.

An extra load on my skull,
but I don’t mind. I rather
like this bowl. It gives me
a barrier, and though thin,
the glass has yet to crack.

I hear my voice resound,
bouncing around the tiny
space, and I smell my breath,
minty fresh and foggy, and
through the fog the world and
its creatures are phantoms.

When I’m addressed, it’s like
floating in frigid freshwater
as they call for me from
the sheet of ice above.
They suspect I’ve lost
my soul in the fishbowl,
yet as year after year
goes by, I feel just fine.

I am an astronaut taking
a space walk, drifting around
and watching the universe
unfold under a sheet of glass.

And when I close my eyes,
I am in a womb, or a coffin,
and I often can’t tell the
difference, nor find much
of a reason to tell.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow

Telling someone who was raised to believe something to be one way that it can be another, is like telling a fish in a fishbowl about the oceans and their creatures.

a ribbon of fire
a curl of lace
and your eyes swimming
in the fishbowl
of my heart

swimming through my head
searching for the words you said
sometimes upwards, you try to swim
but i’ll always push back
when you wanna dim

why you’re so far away
all these things we’ve to pay
why can’t we be together in the rain
or just somewhere else, somewhere
on a hell-bound train?

it seems that’s the place to be
at least for us, not totally free
why do we deserve this
i’m asking myself all the time,
but i know today it’s fine

you’re living in my head
and also tomorrow won´t be bad
as you keep swimming around
i´ll prove it, once i’m a fish too
i´ll prove, you’ll be found

Divergence
Leads to-
Convergence.
James Funke
Told me
I was going to hate him.
I don’t hate you, long arms.
After I read those poems of yours
I cannot- willnot
Believe you wrote them
To drive me away.
Did you really write them?