Do not believe the voices
That speak of fateful choices.
Do not believe the lies
Spoken from wistful eyes.
Do not succumb to sincerity
For emotions do not offer clarity.
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Robert Frost: The Road Not Taken
Stay or Go?
Only a poet
would try to sell his readers
on a romanticized idea
of taking the least traveled path;
as if that
makes one a better person—
just because he chose
the path of most resistance.
We assume the implication
that his life has been made better
because of this choice,
but do we know for sure?
We can never be certain
that to choose the path
with more difficult terrain
has made his life better;
because our definitions of better
vary from person to person.
Only an angry woman
would try to sell her readers
on a romanticized idea
that the former poet
is full of bullshit.
Author’s Commentary: Look what pain made me do! That age old question about whether or not I can write without pain has been answered: no!
Everything left unsaid
Will be the death of me.
Crowding their way up
Through my esophagus,
Physically choking me
The way they’ve been doing
Metaphorically for years.
Murdered by an inability
To sound syllables
From my tongue;
4.20.17 Draft 2
Regrets are things left unsaid
All the unspoken truths
Eating away at me
All the times I should have defended myself
When instead I remained silent
Only to avoid confrontation
But I’ll fight with myself day and night
So many years I’ve spent silent
It’s much harder to speak my mind
When I’ve always been told
To keep my silence, nothing you say has merit
And then to have people frustrated
When I don’t speak my mind
Because they’ve always spoken theirs
How could they ever understand
The difficulty with which I struggle to find my voice?
Everything I’ve never said
Left sitting in my esophagus
Filling me up until I can no longer breath,
Until I’m choking on all the things I’ve never said.
I’ll be murdered by my inability to sound syllables
Because my thoughts don’t matter,
And I don’t mind.
4.20.17 Draft 1
You should want to live, they say,
But I don’t,
And in their eyes that’s the problem.
Why is my only goal wrong?
Just because I want death
that must mean there’s something wrong
with my brain.
But what if the problem lies with them?
What if they’re the ones with the broken brains?
I don’t think there’s anything wrong with my goal.
I think there’s something wrong with their expectations.
Originally written 3/15/17
For the creative spirit
Boredom often translates
Into idleness that spawns an outpouring.
Sometimes, however, boredom and idleness become monotony.
From monotony rarely does the artist find inspiration;
More often than not, monotony breeds apathy,
And apathy is the absolute death of creativity.
Do not allow yourself ennui!
Do not become complacent!
Creative death is the death of spirit.
I was bored at work writing this poem. Let that reality speak for itself.
I have commitment issues.
There. I said it.
You got me to verbally commit to non-committal.
There’s no such thing as permanence,
So why do I want to be locked into any one thing?
I won’t sign on a dotted line!
I like my freedom.
I enjoy being a hummingbird,
Flitting from one flower to the next.
That’s the bumblebee’s job:
Like the buffalo.
I call the open road home,
I won’t be roped and saddled;
I’m the stallion
And I’m free!
I’ve overstayed my welcome,
But don’t worry!
I’ll leave quietly.
That’s what I’m good at,
Exiting stage left with nary a qualm or quibble.
You’ll only know I’m gone
By the absolute silence left in my absence
When you glance around the stage, and realize
Quite some time has passed since you last saw me.
And you’ll wonder:
“What ever happened to that girl in the background?”
But then you’ll shrug, and move on—
After all, she was only an extra.
Small towns and small minds make small talk;
Peering from behind curtains, spying on the neighbors,
Hoping for scandal, only so there’s something to discuss before church on Sunday.
Small towns are like exclusive clubs:
Born and raised, your membership can never be revoked.
“You can never go home,” they say,
But that’s untrue.
The truth is that you can never leave home.
Even when you think you’ve left behind town lines,
Your roots are still firmly planted in the family’s dirt.
Small towns are like gangs:
You’ll take a beating if you want to get out,
And most people just end up crawling back anyway.
Originally written 2/28/17
Let me out of this house!
Trying to be as silent as a mouse,
A hallway down which I creep
(Darkness lurking deep).
There’s a monster in me,
And it’s always fighting to get free.
Originally written 1/19/17