Poetry and cynicsm from a cynical poet.
I am writing this in the hopes it will reach people on my facebook. Facebook will not let me write or comment or like anything at the moment. I keep getting random error after error. And facebook’s “help” section is a laughing shame.
My blog seems to be posting to it for now. Let’s hope that works…
I’ve been called many things in my life
Some more shocking than expected
But worst of all the words thrown at me
that I hold as virtues
As if being an “idealist” is wrong
Or called a cynic as though an insult
Things get to a crux for me
And I wonder if who we are on paper
Is the same as off of it
Without integrity, what are we?
Left to have our lives defined by others
And our identity written for us
That we should dare not question
Are we so afraid of the thoughts of others?
Would we so readily abandon ourselves
To be placed in increasingly narrower boxes?
I know who I am
And I’ll be damned if the people I care about
Don’t know it either
I will not accept things the way they are
If it is at the price of that knowing
Or that being
Some men bend
Some men cannot
And so we break, or leave before we do
I will no longer be afraid of doing so
I hope courage finds us all
If life were like a river, roiling but flowing
(And very well, it may be)
maybe things would be a lot simpler.
The ambivalence of my words and actions would end.
Consistent indeed would be my changes.
The dreamer in me is strong though, and truth -
Truth is always gray, and always black and white,
but only when convenient.
I imagine the whiteness of walls being splattered
with paint and words of the things we fear to say
since our hearts are so fragile, afraid of judgment.
I imagine, nonetheless. For what are we if not lost,
wandering through our romanticism
as we navigate through our realities,
catching breaths and feeling each others beating hearts?
I know full well how quickly a beat can break my chest,
reminding me I’m not alone in here, that I can’t escape you.
I prefer it this way, strange as it were. Without you,
my walls are still blank and I’ve only reds with which to paint.
The walls say as little as I have, and have heard everything.
I realize now they were never mine, and always yours.
The words.
The walls.
Most of all, the paint, and how it still lies in the bucket.
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