When did children lose their love of learning?

When they were told to conform,
To forget their being,
To discard interests, agency, creativity

My own complicity
In the stifling of identity

Authenticity, a digression of the self,
A dissolution of swarming
Complexities

When did I gain my love of learning?

The burning crucible
Of curiosity

Set aflame by rejection of conformity

Constraints, curriculum, crushing expectations
and a world disintegrating
fires of digressions

When is conformity an expression of authenticity?

When is authenticity just another form of conformity?

I didn’t mean
for it to end—
not like this,
not my best friend.

The anger came,
too fast, too loud.
Now I dig
and whisper proud.

We laughed that night,
like always did—
talked of dreams
and stupid kids.

But I held hurt
behind my grin—
a thousand cuts
he’d sliced within.

He didn’t know
how deep they went,
how words can bruise,
how time gets spent.

One glass too much,
a shove, a shout—
and all those ghosts
came pouring out.

I saw the fear
flash in his eyes,
too late to stop,
too late for "why’s."

"I’m sorry"
won’t bring him back.
But still,
I say it
to the cracks.

The ground is cold,
my hands are red.
And silence speaks
where he once said:

"You’re my brother,
through it all."
Now I just
recall the fall.

No court, no cell
can cage me in—
just memory,
and what has been.

I am that memory
you try to leave behind
I am what you almost forget
I rewind my eye
and stare back
I am that blink you can’t bare
and regret

It’s a beautiful day,
A Saturday.
One of those effervescent Spring afternoons  that buzzes with sunny activity,
a neighborhoodly kind of
picture perfect blue sky kind of
everything’s gonna be okay kind of day.

I stare at it from the corner of the couch,
through the window at the lawns across the street from the corner of the couch
and look down at myself.
*****, covered in soil from head to toe.
So bright, too bright out there
through eyes that have been languishing overlong in the deep brown black of the underground,
behind masks and walls,
closed for fear of opening.

They dazzle now and squint,
watering at the light,
not watering,
crying, crying,
etching riverbeds upon my ***** face.
How long was I down there?
Dreaming awake and automatic,
watching her water the houseplants and
comfort the friends
and rock the child
while I shoveled earth over my living form
to protect this vulnerable animal,
to bury bury bury it.

The noise doesn’t reach me
there in my cocoon.
It threatens now to crack my fragile sanity; though madness I would greet as an old companion.
I reject the invitation beckoning me from somewhere deep inside,
push push push it down,
and wave to my neighbor through the window
as he mows his grass.

It’s a beautiful day,
A Saturday,
and my senses pulse with indignation against it.
Back to the dreaming
where I will wrap my mind in cotton
and try again tomorrow.

How the hand you extend is marked with scars
How familiar you are with rejection
How beautiful are those discolored stars
How none have been touched by hate's infection

How many are tears that drip on your chest
How much heat they hold, all stinging and strong
How much love they hold, how much do they bless
How strange that they're for the one who did wrong

How much do I ache when I meet your gaze
How my heart feels like it's all out of joint
How much does it break as you gently say,
"How could all you've done ever be the point?"

I burst my seams trying to hold your gift
A miracle hug across a great rift

I am not sure why I did it,
Well that's what I'm going to say
Once I get caught with it.

Because we all know it'll happen.
I know why I stole the thing,
It's not very simple to explain:

The memories wouldn't stop,
I wanted some control over my life,
The urge needed to be fulfilled,

But the general, easy explanation:
I wanted to do it,
I have waited so long.

It's not like me to steal,
At least that's what they think.
I've thought about this for so long.

I contemplate doing many things:
So many horrible things,
Things I'd rather die than do.

I want to scream and cry,
Throw things, flip tables,
Show them how I really feel.

But I don't,
I keep up my reputation,
Smile through all of it.

I don't let anyone know,
If they knew half of it,
I would have no one.

The funny part about this
Is that I don't regret it at all,
I know I should.

I don't regret it,
Relief instantly washed over me,
Like the sick being I am.

A small, reluctant smile forms on your lips;
small because there are no smiles without the guilt
that comes from being the only flower in a field of weeds.